JUSTICE IS SERVED

D. P. CLARK

(FIRST NOVEL IN A SERIES)

JUSTICE IS SERVED

2010 D. P. Clark

All Rights Reserved.  Except for use of brief passages for the purpose of any review, the reproduction or use of this work, in whole or in part, by any electronic, mechanical or other means, currently existing or invented in the future, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction.  Events, people and locations have no existence outside of the imagination of the author.  Any resemblance to actual people, places or events is purely coincidental.  The author apologizes for any factual errors the reader may encounter.

This novel is dedicated to my family.   Without their support, it would not have been possible.  It is also dedicated to the men and women of law enforcement, both local and federal, who fight the good fight every day. 

PROLOGUE

       Affectionately referred to by its approximately hundred and thirty thousand residents as Saint Jerry's, the town of San Garcia is located approximately a hundred and fifteen miles south-east of San Francisco. 

       Walking through the heart of town, one is rarely reminded of just how close they really are to what was once the true heartland and home of the Sixties movement.  In this part of town, so-called “progress” has made its mark.  It is apparent that the passage of over four decades has left its indelible impression on this once laid-back, free spirited community.

       The center of the downtown area is not unlike that of any mid-sized town in modern corporate America.  It seems, very much indeed, like a somewhat miniaturized, yet fully functional, version of its larger cousins to the North.  Many have even said, tongue firmly in cheek, that it is like the little brother of the San Francisco, Oakland, or Sacramento of today. 

       There are a few scattered high-rises, several glass-fronted banks, and multiple reminders of the time, for better or for worse, ranging from body piercing studios to pay-day advance loan centers. The high rate of interest charged by these “get money now” storefronts has lead to a number of rumors that  they are, in fact, controlled by the “local” Mafia families, with local being a relative term indicating San Francisco and Las Vegas.  Those rumors are not always necessarily without some foundation in reality.  In fact, it is a known fact, yet one that cannot be proven, that these are now the number one legitimate business used by the mob to launder their funds, as well as their top above board profit maker, making far more nationwide than their casinos in the mob heyday in Las Vegas, before the influx of Asian ownership and corporate conglomerates operating mega-casinos and not simple gambling halls.  Such is the downtown area, however, the rest of the town is a study in contrast. 

       When one wanders just a few miles out of the concrete jungle that makes up the downtown area, however, they enter an entirely different world.  Here, they, in effect, enter a time warp.  It is here that the reminders of a much more carefree time, namely that free-flowing and free-loving lifestyle that the “Left Coast” was once known for, that lifestyle that hearkened to thousands of young Americans over forty years ago, abound. 

       Here, indeed, the Sixties are not only once again alive, they are, in fact, flourishing and thriving.  They have not only continued to live on, they have not shown any signs of aging or slowing down.

       Housed mostly in quaint Victorian houses, much like those that at one time would have been used as boarding houses for a flock of somewhat vagabond souls in the Haight-Ashbury area, there are several Sixties-related businesses, ranging from psychedelic shops to artists’ studios, and Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, or Jefferson Airplane music can be heard on nearly every street corner.  There is even an occasional burst of the lesser remembered Quicksilver Messenger Service.  One would be very hard pressed, indeed, to find any heavy metal, rap or hip-hop emanating  from any stereo in the area.

       Here, the smell of incense and Patchouli oil are constantly wafting on the wind.  Tie-dyed clothing and curtains seem to predominate, as does a carefree lifestyle that is far removed from the hustle and bustle that is common in the larger cities surrounding Saint Jerry’s, and seems to be quickly gaining dominance in the downtown are.  

       Many residents feel that the downtown area is making a tremendous effort to emulate those previously mentioned larger Northern cousins, forsaking the will of a large percentage of its residents.    These residents, who comprise the majority of the native population, yearn to make the outskirts the norm and the corporate longings of the major players in the downtown area, who are seen as outsiders and interlopers, the exception.

       Apart from the decidedly Sixties flair enjoyed by the majority of its citizens, as over seventy percent of Native residents have chosen to live in the outskirts rather than the heart of town, San Garcia is not unlike any other town in any major metropolitan area in the Western U.S.  While its proximity to San Francisco allows it to share some of the charm of its larger, far more famous, cousin to the North, it also brings some of the problems of any large city, including crime.  It is in this maelstrom of frivolity and felonious deeds that this tale takes place.

1

       As the large man reads his daily copy of the San Garcia Dispatch, his anger grows.  The story seems to leap right off of the page at him, as though it has taken on a life of its own:

Kurtis Benson, 37, was granted parole yesterday.  As readers may recall, Benson received a sentence of fifteen years for manslaughter as a result of a plea bargain agreement for the slaying, a decade ago, of aspiring actress Ingrid Newborn. 

When asked why they granted Benson early parole, following only ten years of incarceration, the parole board, in a written statement, noted:  “Benson's exemplary behavior while incarcerated is, in our opinion, demonstrative of a changed man.  He is no longer a threat to society and, therefore, should be released so he can attempt to make something of his life.  He is still young enough to make significant contributions to society, should he choose to do so.  This can happen if, and only if he is given a fair opportunity to do so.  Continued incarceration would serve no purpose at this point in time.  Additionally, current prison populations preclude continued incarceration of offenders with a low risk of recidivism, and we feel that Benson falls into that category.  He is, indeed, a new man.”

Readers may recall that Benson stabbed Newborn to death after entering her home in order to commit a burglary.  Newborn surprised Benson in the act, and he stabbed her repeatedly. 

Benson then prepared a steak from her freezer for himself, sat at her dining room table and ate this dinner, then continued to burglarize the house. 

Benson, an admitted cocaine addict at that time, stated during his arraignment that he felt, “The drugs were responsible for my behavior, not me.”

Benson was unavailable for comment upon his release.  As of this writing, Benson has expressed no remorse at any time, as he continued to state the drugs were responsible. 

Benson contends that now, with his sobriety, that problem will no longer be present, and therefore, he should be freed.  Authorities will no reveal where Benson is residing at this time.

       The man throws the paper across the room in disgust.  How many times, he asks himself, is some dirt-bag criminal going to get off with an easy sentence because of jail overcrowding, mistakes in police procedure, or clever attorneys?  When is something going to be done about this?  He decides that something must be done now, and he will be the one to do it.  It should be easy. 

       After all, he has all the tools he will need at his disposal.  Justice, indeed, will be served.  In fact, he will be the one to serve this justice, and it will be, as the Bible says, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” In fact, he'll start this very night.  He even thinks of a new identity, a new label.  He will now be known as “The Vindicator.”

       He looks at the gold and stainless steel Rolex Submariner on his wrist, purchased with money he “found” one day a few months back while on the job, and notices that he has to be at work in about an hour.  This comes as a slight surprise to him, as he does not realize how long he spent thinking about the article.  What seemed like only seconds must have, in reality, been minutes spent on an internal dialogue debating the lack of true justice.

       He quickly finishes his daily breakfast of a pot of coffee and a couple of glazed donuts.  Today, like most days, this is eaten with him standing and leaning over the kitchen sink.  He quickly walks into the bathroom, washes his face, rinses his mouth with water cupped in his large hand, and runs a fine toothed comb through his shortly cropped brown hair, which is just starting to show the first few wisps of gray.  He quickly strides to his front door, reaches toward the oak coat rack there, and grabs his hat, then quickly heads out to his car. 

       He realizes that he will, most likely, have to exceed legal speed limits to make it to work on time.  He laughs internally as he thinks that this will pose no problems for him.  He reflects on his current position in life, and as he says to himself that he, indeed, has more power and influence than most people, he smiles widely, a very self-satisfied grin, indeed.  Those that know him would find this strange, since at work, he usually appears very reserved, rarely showing any emotion.  In fact, some of his coworkers have joked behind his back that they theorize he is, in fact, a robot and not human.

       Since he prides himself on being such an organized person as a rule, however, this lapse in time management, if even just for a day, upsets him to some extent.  He doesn't have any explanation or rationalization for this lapse.  He usually is able to rationalize any error on his part, no matter how large or small.  He has done this all of his life, making sure that he gives the impression of absolute control and as close an approximation of perfection as possible.  He soon dismisses this error in time management as an anomaly, and opens the door to his car.

       He eases his six foot five inch, two hundred and thirty pound frame into the sleek black sedan.  He backs out of the gravel driveway, and heads down the unpaved road to the freeway entrance.  Approaching the gate, he presses the button on the remote clipped to the visor, and the gate glides open silently.

       As he presses down on the accelerator of his Crown Victoria, he tunes the radio to a country music station.  He turns up the volume and cruises down the San Garcia Freeway, west bound into town, singing along with the radio. 

       He arrives at the parking garage with ten minutes to spare, parks his car, locks it, and rushes to the elevator, whistling quietly.  When he arrives for the morning meeting, exactly ten minutes later, his colleagues state that he seems peppier than usual.  Several joke with him about making the meeting by the skin of his teeth, laughing and patting him on the back.  He simply smiles and says that, for once in his life, things are working out perfectly. 

       Indeed, with his plan set, he feels that things will be perfect. Naturally, he tells nobody of his plan, as they would not be able to understand the true elegance, the simplistic beauty, nor the necessity.  His plan must be kept entirely private, as now he can make more of a difference than he ever has before. 

       With his simplistically beautiful, yet necessarily secret (at least for now), plan, he can be free of the limits placed on him by his perceived station in life and the limits placed on his actions, both privately and work related, by a well-intentioned, but uninformed society.  He will no longer be bound by rules that protect the perpetrator and punish the victim.  He is above those rules.

2

        Meanwhile, across town, Kurt Benson hears the alarm clock ring on the nightstand next to his bed.  He stretches his muscular frame to its full five foot, nine inch height as he gets out of bed, a free man for the first time in well over nine years. 

       He knows he has to at least make an effort to find employment.  Actually, he knows he only has to make it appear he has done so.  This is purely to satisfy his parole officer, as he has no intention of working for minimum wage, and, he asks himself, who would hire an ex-felon for any higher pay rate?  Also, he lacks the education and work experience required to find most jobs.

       He knows that if he were in a position to do so, and was not himself someone who had been punished, in his opinion excessively, he would be extremely reluctant to hire anyone with a criminal record.  He understands that society is scared of people with a criminal past.  He also knows that he would have to protect the bottom line, and that for those that have been used to taking what they want and need, without always paying for it, it is a hard habit to break.  He decides that freedom, or at least his version of freedom, is not perfect, but certainly beats the alternative. 

       He knows that a return to his previous line of work, what the authorities call burglary, but he prefers to think of as “the liberation of improperly protected property”, holds little risk in reality, as the vast majority of such “crimes” go unreported, and among those that are reported, most are unsolved and gather very little real attention from the authorities.  The police often state that they are busy solving more serious crimes, namely homicides and sex crimes to devote more time to property crime, yet he knows that they are, in reality, just too lazy to devote the time needed to investigate such crimes. 

       He feels that the only reason he was ever caught, which, incidentally, happened on his fifty-third job, was because he spent too much time in the house, even foolishly cooking and eating a steak dinner.  He slightly regrets doing so, as the homeowner returned and he was forced to remove her as a witness, and to protect himself, as she had the nerve to attack him with her keys. 

       He does not think of himself as a violent person, yet he could not risk her giving the police a description that could be used in identifying him.  He saw killing her as simply a way to protect himself, and in an odd way, a type of self defense.

       He vows never to make such a stupid mistake again.  He still doesn't understand fully how the police figured out who was responsible, and thinks that someone he knows must have turned him in.

       He also decides to target a different group of potential victims.  He knows if he goes up to the more glamorous, ritzier areas of the county, such as El Norte, La Nina, and Crown Village, he is more likely to encounter corporate types that will take extended leaves of absence from their homes due to work related travel or vacations, and, besides, they'll have things worth much more on the black market than the small televisions and stereo systems he's used to stealing.  He knows these families often have such an active lifestyle that there homes serve as little more than a place to sleep and shower.  They are rarely there during the day or early evening, and often these homes are even entirely empty for months at a time, as the families vacation in Florida or Europe.

       He thinks he'll be more likely to find a Patek Phillipe or Breitling than a Casio or Timex in these homes, and can make far fewer scores but live a much easier life style.  He also knows that these homes will be filled with the latest electronic gadgets and these always have a high value on the street, often as much as half of the retail price.

        He feels that much of the wealth and opulence of the owners of such homes are gained through the exploitation of the workingman, and therefore, rightfully the property of the workingman.  Although his job is unconventional, he still sees himself as a workingman.  He considers himself a fully employed citizen, doing a job that not everyone has the skill or courage to do.

       He thinks to himself, in fact, that if he scores early enough, he might even take a job in one of these areas, just to please his parole officer and stay out of jail.  After all, even rich people eat at restaurants, use the services of gardeners or pool cleaners, and shop in supermarkets and clothing stores.

       Benson knows that he has to phone in a report to his parole officer at the end of the day, presumably to tell him how the job hunt is progressing and how he is doing as far as his cravings for illicit substances, but more likely just as a means to make sure he hasn’t skipped town.  He is amazed that he was able to avoid going to a halfway house or probationers' hotel. 

       He feels fortunate that the local probationers' hotel operation was closed just a few weeks prior to his release due to a lack of funding and poor management.  Anyway, he knows it was little more than a government funded crack house that the police politely ignored, until the neighbors forced them to at least make a minimal effort to enforce the law.  These efforts rarely resulted in any arrests and simply delayed the transactions by a few minutes.

       He still laughs to himself when he sees or hears anything related to tennis, thinking of the cars honking at 3:00 AM at the hotel, and the voices shouting, “Throw down the tennis ball, man!”  This ingenious method of drug trafficking involved a modified tennis ball on a string.  The ball would go down, money and a note stating what specific substance, and what amount, was requested would be put in the opening cut in the side.  The ball was quickly pulled back up.  The purchase was then placed in the same opening.  The ball was then lowered back down to the customer.  Finally, the empty ball was retrieved by its owner. 

       The tennis ball trick was a necessity since an electronically tagged resident ID was required to unlock the doors and enter the hotel building itself.  No dealer wanted to loan out his or her ID, for fear of its being lost, nor did they want to have an inordinate amount of activity registered on their ID number, as every entry and exit was recorded by means of a magnetic strip on the back of the card.

       Benson was known to have frequented the hotel quite often before his arrest.  The fact that the hotel was located next door to a residential drug treatment facility was the final irony.

       Benson feels fortunate, also that he was able to keep the family home.  His parents finished paying for the home when he was a child, and therefore, he has no rent to pay.  His only expenses are annual property taxes and monthly utilities.

       These expenses are paid automatically, via direct electronic transfer from the bank.  The funds paying these expenses come from the substantial trust fund his grandparents established for him.  The limitation on the account, stating that any personal withdrawals be approved by the family attorney, and then for no more than three hundred dollars at a time, greatly irritates him, as it substantially limits his ability to have substantial spending money.

       He goes to the living room, opens the door, walks next door, and grabs the morning paper off the neighbors lawn.  This small larceny will likely go unnoticed, as the lawn is strewn with trash and there ar several days of newspapers on the lawn, and a large amount of mail overflowing the mailbox on the porch.  The homeowner is either absent or ill, and therefore, will not even think of a single missing newspaper. 

       He needs the newspaper to satisfy his parole officer with minimal effort.  He figures he can at least look at the want ads, and circle a few jobs that his probation officer may think are appropriate for a man of his education level and work history. 

       As a ninth grade drop out, he thinks that if he had stayed in school, he may have avoided some of his legal problems.  This is not likely, however, since he wasn't the type to follow all of the rules placed on him by the administrators of the school he attended.  After all, such rules are for those that are not able to think freely, and he is, undoubtedly, a free thinker.

       When he dropped out of school, his parents were furious at first, but later relented and allowed him to stay at home and study the books he got out of the library about corporate security and computers, thinking it may spark a vocational interest in him.  He didn't tell his parents that he never even read the books.  He just wanted to appear to be trying to learn so they'd stay off his back.   

       He is angry with himself now, just a little, however.  If he had read the books, maybe he could have hit the big time.  Computer crimes can, potentially, make large sums of money, and if you are good enough, you can probably hide any traces of your identity or even your mere presence.  He could have been on the cutting edge and been a millionaire.

       Before starting his “job hunt” he picks up the phone to call his old friend Pete to locate some cocaine.  He laughs when he thinks about the stupid prison officials who failed to monitor his attendance or participation in the recovery programs in prison.  After all, he rarely attended, and when he did, he simply drew in his notebook, not paying any attention to the good for nothing losers leading the meetings, telling him how important i t was to remain clean and sober.   He got tired of them relaying their sorry sob stories, most of which were probably lies, anyway.  After all, he never lost work or a loved one to drugs.  He could give them up any time he wanted.  He just placed the blame on the drugs in court because he knew it would work to give him a lighter sentence.  He had seen it work many times before. 

       In prison, drugs were surprisingly easy to obtain.  The prices he paid were slightly higher than he liked, but then again, he didn’t exactly have the option to shop around for a better deal.  The hardest part was getting cash inside.  He had to have friends smuggle small amounts of cash to him in the bindings of books and other hiding places.  In the prison, his best supply source was the guard in charge of his cell block.

       After he has secured the drugs from Pete, and set up a delivery time, he walks to the cupboard and grabs a red and white box from the shelf.  He walks to the cupboard and grabs a frying pan, goes to his stove and fixes the red beans and rice.  He eats breakfast directly from the pan, standing over the sink, then walks to the dining room table,  sits down, opens the paper and looks at the “help wanted - general” section. 

       He laughs out loud at the jobs available, but circles several janitorial and food service jobs as “possible leads” to report to the parole officer that evening.  He then picks up the remote and clicks on the TV to watch a couple of morning game shows until Pete arrives with his first shipment since being outside. 

       Life is sweet, indeed.  All he has to do is make it appear he is playing their game, and in a couple of years, he will be as free as a bird.  He looks forward to that day more than any day before.  He knows that, after that day, he will never see the inside of another jail or prison.  Nor will he have to report to anyone unless he chooses to do so. 

       He is far too smart for them to ever catch again.  He is also far too smart to have to tell anyone what he plans to do, with whom, and where.  He is a person who, if he desires, should be able to do anything he wants.  He is far superior to those that try to flaunt an imagined authority over him.

3

       The San Garcia Police headquarters is, as usual, buzzing with activity.  Those officers who are just reporting to duty mill around the water cooler and coffee pot waiting for the morning briefing, discussing last night's television programs and their weekend plans.  There are numerous suspects being interviewed by those officers from the night shift that are unfortunate enough not to be getting off duty on time, yet again.  The drunk tank, as usual, is full and the occupants are in various stages of consciousness, some catatonic, others singing or screaming to be let out.  One resident here actually has a decent singing voice, even if the words seem to be random bits of hatred toward anyone not like him.  He is a regular, known only by his nickname of “Adolf.”

       The homicide division, especially, is a hotbed of emotions and frustration.  The squad on the morning shift is made up of five detectives and a lieutenant that is officially labeled the “watch commander”.  He has yet to pass the test to be promoted to the rank of captain, and this is starting to become an issue.  In fact, unknown to anyone on the squad, one of his “underlings” has also passed the test and is equal in rank, although this detective has no desire to be promoted out of the squad, not that he would have to leave, but there is some pressure being placed on this detective to take the captain's exam and assume the role of “watch commander” and to demote the current “commander” to the rank of detective.

       Detectives Anita Olson and Alice Ramirez are the first female homicide detectives to grace the San Garcia police department.  Not everyone views their promotion to their current rank as highly deserved or appropriate, regardless of the hard work and study they put into earning it.  They have heard a detective on the overnight watch speak of it as “affirmative action gone to extremes.”

       Detectives Dan Bernard and Ryan Firmii, while professional when working cases with Olson and Ramirez, both resent that their own promotions were much later in their police careers.  Why should a couple of young kids, still wet behind the ears, get promoted up the ladder so fast without the street experience to put them there fairly?  A college education, in their opinion, is no replacement for years spent learning on the streets.

       Detective Lewis Garrison, himself a twenty year veteran of police work, with fifteen of those years in homicide, tries to avoid taking sides at all.  He feels that as long as everyone does his or her job, things are fine.  He himself has learned equally from the theoretical offerings of college classes and real life experience on the streets.  He also knows that the nature of the job now, with the emphasis on scientifically verifiable forensic evidence, requires an education that a large percentage of current officers lack.

       The composition of the squad itself requires that they work as one three detective team and one two detective team, with Garrison, the senior detective of the squad, alternating between the teams on a more or less case by case basis.  This, in part, leads to Garrison’s reluctance to take sides.  The other main factor in his reluctance is the fact that he truly sees Ramirez and Olson as equals, where Firmii and Bernard don’t always do so, regardless of their protestations to the opposite, claiming they see Olson and Ramirez as equal, just as having gotten a lucky break that they resent not having gotten themselves.

       Lieutenant Justus Harmon tries his best to keep his team of detectives from each other’s throats, and is mostly successful.  Harmon has been part of the homicide department for twenty years, and of police work for twenty-six.

       Born fifty three years ago in San Garcia, from his earliest memories, Harmon was raised in San Ramos, a small desert reservation east of San Garcia that is, at the same time, ultra modern (with its casino and shopping center) and rustic, with its abode huts.  He feels like he knows what it's like to be seen as an outsider.  As a result, he feels a certain amount of empathy for Olson and Ramirez, yet at the same time knows that he has to let them assert themselves, because, if he does it for them, they will lose what respect they have earned. 

       He still lives in San Ramos, on the reservation, where his uncle raised him.  This uncle was, in actuality, his father's closest childhood friend and not a blood relative.  In Harmon's mind, however, this doesn't matter, since he sees the entire community on the reservation as is family, and does not see that blood is any factor in determining who is related. 

       His parents died in a plane crash when Harmon was only 17 months old, and the will stipulated that Douglas Greyfox should raise Harmon until the time that he was able to support himself.  There was more than enough money provided to do so, and, as chief of the reservation's police force, Greyfox was never in need.  Members of the tribe provided whatever they felt was needed, out of respect for Greyfox's help with the “white man's” legal system from time to time.  They resent the fact that the laws change when they leave the reservation and that they have to follow laws that are at odds with their upbringing and laws that infringe on their personal and religious beliefs.

       When asked why he doesn't move to the city, Harmon states that one can find any store or entertainment option within an hour's drive, yet live in a country setting where your closest neighbor is a coyote, so why live where you are packed in so tightly that you can hear your neighbor sneeze.  If you want to enjoy a few hours of gambling, in fact, it is only a short walk from your home to the reservation casino.  If you want to shop for items other than food, the outlet mall on the reservation houses over a hundred stores carrying items ranging from stereos and video games to clothes and luggage.  There is even a small grocery store, with three major chains competing for the rights to build a supermarket.

       Besides, Harmon states, he feels a need to be close to his Native American roots, even if he is only one half Native American, his father having been a member of the Apache nation, while himself half French.  He feels at home among the tribal members, even if they are primarily mostly Navajo.  His mother was half Kumeyaay and half Mecican from San Diego.  This makes him quite closely related to the reservation members, since, after all, the Kumeyaay are closely related to the Navajo, despite their statements at times to the contrary.

       As of the previous day, all of the current cases that the morning shift had been working on are resolved, at least as far as the police are concerned.  The perpetrators have been identified and arrested.  Now it's up to the courts to administer punishment, at least to the extent that the district attorney and his staff are able to convince a group of twelve untrained civilians of the extent of the perpetrator's guilt and responsibility in the crime.

       He knows his staff has worked tirelessly to keep up with the cases and solve them as soon as is possible, often putting in unpaid overtime to make sure their respective caseloads remain manageable.  A look around the squad room gives him to time to reflect on his staff. 

       Detective Anita Olson appears much younger than her thirty-two years of age.  Her long blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, along with her skin and muscular body, pay homage to her Scandinavian roots.  Her hair provides a startling contrast to her dark red dress.  She has been in the homicide division for exactly six months, the same as her partner, Alice Ramirez.  Also like Ramirez, she joined the department three years ago.  Her main fault, if you can call it that, is that she is overly organized. 

       The fact that her files are always in order and she is rarely seen taking time to thoroughly read a case file or work laboriously on the mounds of tedious paperwork that accumulate throughout a case give many the mistaken impression that she is lazy and idle.  This morning, for instance, she sits at her desk drinking coffee and talking on the phone to her cousin in El Norte.  In fact, her stringent organization is what permits her this freedom.  The level or organization she imposes on herself allows her to complete in thirty minutes what takes her coworkers an hour to an hour and a half to complete.  This leads to a high degree of both resentment and envy.

       Olson's partner, Alice Ramirez, twenty-eight, is almost exactly the opposite of Olson herself.  Ramirez's dark skin, brown eyes and short brown hair, coupled with her short stature, are demonstrative of her Cuban roots.  Her dress this day is far more casual than Olson’s.  She wears a simple white sweater over faded blue jeans.  Also unlike Olson, Ramirez is far from organized.  This morning, for instance, she has three files open on her desk, trying to remember which details, jotted down hastily on barely legible post-it notes and random scraps of paper, belong to which case, should her testimony be requested.  Needless to say, she has once again failed to put any names or case-reference identification numbers on any of the notes.  She has also failed or forgotten to place color-coded section dividers in any of the files.  She finally locates the appropriate file for each note and places the notes accordingly, still somewhat randomly in the file.  Ramirez wishes detectives were called to testify as a team, so she could rely mostly on Olson to provide the bulk of the testimony, but knows the stark reality is such that, usually, only one of the investigating officers is called into court.  And more often than not, lately, that officer has been herself.

       Detective Dan Bernard, a five year veteran of the homicide division, looks like a mess this morning.  His blue eyes are blood shot, as though he hasn't slept, and his black hair is matted to his head.  His brown suit is in need of pressing, and dark circles under each arm of the coat suggest it is also in need of a cleaning. 

       His six foot, hundred and eighty-five pound body slumps at his desk.  He seems distracted, and his partners blame this on his marital problems.  At Forty-three, Bernard tends to drink a bit too much on weekends, and as a result, his wife is preparing to leave him if he doesn't seek help.  He tries to tell her that his drinking is perfectly normal, as all German men enjoy their beer.  He also reasons that since he's been drinking since the age of fifteen without any impairment in occupational or social functioning, and no legal difficulties, that he doesn't have a problem.

       In fact, he is proud of the fact that in ten years of police work, he has never so much as taken a sick day.   Bernard is having trouble concentrating on the one open file in front of him, especially since the case was already decided and all that is left is the sentencing hearing, which he doubts will require his testimony. 

       Ryan Firmii, a seventeen-year veteran of police work, with the last five of those in the homicide division, is the workhorse of the squad.  He joined the department at twenty-four, after spending four years in the Navy.  His French accent endears him to his fellow officers, and his slight build belies his enormous strength. 

       Unlike Bernard, Firmii is wearing a freshly cleaned and pressed charcoal gray suit.  This morning, his desk is littered with the remnants of his desk drawers, which he is clearing out of all non-essential items.  He has stacked his case files neatly on a chair next to him. 

       Piled on the desk are candy bar wrappers, rubber bands, staples, paper clips, chewing gum, an old paperback novel he never got around to reading and other miscellaneous items that he figures are either trash or in need of organization.  He opens the evidence kit he keeps next to his desk and takes out several zip-lock bags, into which he places paper clips, staples, and so forth.  The novel he places on the corner of his desk, and the other items he sweeps into the wastebasket.

       Lewis Garrison's day is not going well.  First thing this morning, his coffee spilled onto his lap, as he rounded a corner and the top popped off, soiling his light blue slacks.  Disgusted with himself over that clumsy act, he further angered himself when he slipped on some oil in the parking garage and fell, breaking the left lens of his glasses and making a small stain on the slate gray shirt he wore that day.  He is thankful that, at least, his tie is spared any indignities, especially as it is a Garcia tie, and one of his favorites.

       Running a bony hand through his gray streaked hair, the forty-four year old detective asks for the day off to make an appointment to go to the optometrist and have a fresh pair made.  As he has no cases pending in court, and his paperwork is in order, this request is granted, with the time to be taken from his accumulated vacation time.

       Garrison makes his way down to his nineteen sixty-eight Valiant.  As he cruises out of the driveway, he shoves a tape into the deck in the console. 

       He sings along with the Phil Lesh on the opening lines of “Box of Rain.”   While listening, he starts reflecting back on the hot June afternoon in 1994 when he recorded the tape from the tapers’ section in Las Vegas.

       A lifelong Deadhead, he smiles as he thinks of the irony of living in Saint Jerry's.  The tape just begins to make the flip to side two when he pulls into the parking lot of the local “Qwik Lens” franchise.

4

       Benson is startled awake from a light slumber by a knock on his door.  Due to the blackout shades on his windows, he ha no idea of the current time.  He glances at the clock, seeing the glowing numbers announcing that it's 2:30.  He smiles with the realization that it is just about the time he is expecting his friend Pete with his “medicinal necessities.” He gets up, stretching.  He exits his bedroom and walks quickly to the living room.  He goes to his front door and looks out the small window centered in its top panel.  He sees the balding Pete standing there, nervously shifting from one foot to the other, glancing over his shoulder.  At just under five foot tall, with somewhat over-sized ears and a scraggly red beard, Pete is almost gnome-like in appearance.  That doesn't matter to Benson as long as nobody sees them together.  Benson opens the door, admitting Pete into his Paradise Mesa home. 

       “Pete, good buddy, long time no see!”

       “Yeah, Kurt, it has been.  Let's get this over with before they find out I left work.  This is the best stuff that's come in lately.  It’s almost ninety percent pure.  Came off a modified fishing boat up from Guadalajara.  They'll never know it’s missing.  I’ll just hafta step on what's left a little, and I got enough talc and inositol to do that,” the small man replies, nervously.

       “Yeah, Pete, that's great, but I hope you know I can't pay you until later this week, since I just got out, you know.  I gotta wait ‘til I get paid, and I don’t get paid ‘til I do a job, ya know.  I'll give ya three fifty for the bag, which is at least seventy five more than you’d get anyplace else, especially on the street.  Monday, at the latest, OK, pal?”

       “Yeah, whatever, Kurt, I just gotta get back to work before they know I'm missing.  I left the locker unmanned and am just hoping no one comes in to put anything away or review anything before I get back.”

       “Sure thing, Pete, and thanks, buddy.  I owe you.”

       Benson closes the door as he watches Pete nervously return to his car, and wonders if the police evidence clerk doesn't himself take advantage of some of the drugs he has watch over, since he is, after all, a civilian employee and not a sworn officer, and due a loophole in the union contract, not subjected to random drug testing. 

       He thinks that Pete definitely reminds him of some speed freaks he used to know.  It doesn’t really matter, he figures.  At least he knows the cops won't bust him for possession, since his dealer is a cop, of sorts, even if he is more likely a civilian employee. 

       Benson lays out a long line of cocaine, pulls a five-dollar bill out of his pocket, rolls it up, and snorts deeply.  Ah, he thinks, it's been too long.  His head feels like it is about to explode as his nervous system gets jolted in that old familiar way for the first time in nearly a decade.  The stuff he had access to inside wasn’t nearly this pure or this clean. 

       In fact, speed was much easier to come by than coke, and the coke that was available was cut with speed most of the time.  This is almost like re-experiencing his first time using all over again.  He lies back on the couch to enjoy the rush. 

5

       The Vindicator notices that the attendant in charge of what he considers his personal research library appears to be on a break.  He knows that this is the opportunity he has been seeking.  He takes the slim leather case of lock picks out of his coat pocket, picks the simple lock, and opens the large oak door and slips into the library. 

       He quickly locates the file he is seeking: “Benson, Kurtis James.”  He opens the file, and is surprised to find that Benson has a home in Paradise Mesa that is, apparently, still under his sole ownership.  He figures that is highly likely to be the place that Benson has returned to reside upon his parole, and writes the address in the small notebook he keeps in his breast pocket. 

       He turns to the court transcript, and sees the testimony he was looking for, including small reproductions of some of the key exhibits.  He quickly photocopies the pages of testimony he feels are most relevant, using the copier in the corner of the cramped library.  He then returns the file to its proper place, folding his copies and placing them in the inside pocket of his coat.  His mind seems to be full of energy, with the thoughts unusually clear, fast and vivid.  He knows from this sign that he is on the right path, that his mission must be fulfilled.  He smiles inwardly, while keeping his usual impassive façade in place.

       He slips quietly out of inner door of the library, closes it and exits the library itself.  He enters the elevator and presses the button to take him from the basement back to his office on the third floor.  Tonight, he vows, justice will be served.  As he is riding to his office, the elevator stops and opens on the main level.  He sees the man in charge of the library glance at the indicator lights, and hears him say, “I'm going down, so I'll wait.” The doors close and he rides up in silence to his office. 

6

       Benson, in a trance-like state after the effects of several rounds of cocaine have worn off, is unaware of the contents of the program on the television, instead using it only for background noise to quiet his mind.  He lies there, dazed, as the set blares away.  His dreams are of scoring big in the morning, perhaps enough to buy a nice car with his ill gotten gains.  He thinks that a Porsche would be nice, maybe even a Lotus. 

       Before dozing off, he has a nagging feeling there was something he was supposed to do today, but can't put his finger on it.  Now, as he lies there in near slumber, he is far past caring for the time being.  His only thoughts are on the pleasure he has experienced, and the big plans he has for making money in the very near future.  He runs down his mental list of various pawn shops that are not as diligent as the law would like in regards to checking the proper ownership of the property they take in.

        In his deep state of slumber, he fails to hear the sound of the car gliding slowly to the curb.  He likewise does not hear the slight scratching sounds at his front door.

7

       The Vindicator slowly and quietly guides his cat to the curb.  Before opening the door to exit his vehicle, he reaches up to unscrew the dome light.  He exits the car, and slips on a pair of latex gloves before checking his pockets for the needed tools.

        He stealthily approaches the house, and peers in the window, peeking through a slight crack in the curtains.  He is pleased to see Benson sleeping deeply on the sofa.

       He walks up to the door, which is hidden from the street by a large pine tree, and uses the same lock picks he used earlier to open the door.  He quickly enters the house, quietly closing the door behind him.

       He notices the cocaine residue on the glass table top  and goes to the kitchen and wets a paper towel to wipe it up.  While there, he gabs a large chef's knife, as well.  He wants the scene to resemble the Newborn case as closely as possible.

       Returning to the living room, he wipes up the residue, putting the paper towel in a plastic bag he removes from a pocket in the cargo pants he changed in to before leaving work.  He removes  a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it, revealing a diagram showing the exact locations of all knife wounds on Newborn.

       He then places his left hand firmly over Benson's mouth, and, using his right hand, plunges the knife deeply into Benson's heart, killing him instantly.  He then carefully stabs Benson several more times, in as close an approximation as possible to Newborn's injuries, given the extreme difference in anatomical structure.  He makes sure to leave the knife plunged deeply in the last wound, just as Benson had done.

       The Vindicator then removes the notebook from his pocket, and opens it to the page showing the items stolen in the robbery, determined by such things as the white area of her wrist where the watch was stolen, and the fact that shw was known to own a gold Rolex that was not recovered at the scene, and the large area of dust on the entertainment center where the television had been sitting, and was no longer there.

       He then proceeds to remove the cheap generic watch from Benson's wrist and takes the television set to the kitchen, setting it near the back door.  The watch is slipped into a pocket.

        Satisfied that the scene is nearly perfect in the living room, he heads to the kitchen.  He opens the refrigerator looking for a steak, so he can reproduce the scene there as well.  He is only slightly annoyed that he finds none.  Just to be sure, he checks the freezer, again coming up empty.

       He has come prepared for such an event, however.  He pulls the cheap ground beef from another pocket of his cargo pants, and fries is quickly.  He walks directly to the sink and runs it down the garbage disposal.  He then walks to the cabinet, and removes a plate.  He grabs a steak knife and fork from the counter top, and walks to the table.

       He sets the plate on the table, with the fork and knife on top, at the left side.  He then removes a foil wrapped bone from the T-bone he prepared the night  before from the last leg pocket of his cargo pants, unwraps the foil, and places the bone squarely in the middle of the plate.

       Satisfied with the results, he goes to the back door, opens it, sets the television outside and exits himself, leaving the door open.  He feels fortunate that Benson lives on a canyon rim, and that the bottom of that canyon is used by neighborhood residents as an unlicensed dump.  Carrying the television over his left shoulder, he walks down into the canyon, and walks approximately half a block west, then tosses the set as far as he can.

       He turns around, walks back to Benson's, re-enters the house locks the back door, and walks to the living room, being sure to lock the front door as he exits and quietly walks back to his car, sliding silently onto the street, which is devoid of traffic.

       He drives home. And before entering the house, walks to the barbecue and places the gloves among the charcoal, which he lights with extra lighter fluid.  He is sure this will totally destroy any evidence that may be on the gloves.  He enters his home and goes to bed, ready to sleep dreamlessly, satisfied that his first mission has gone so well.

8

       Thursday morning, shortly after role call, the phone on Harmon's desk rings its shrill message. 

       “Harmon, Homicide.”

       “Hi, this is Josh Franklin, county probation.  I was assigned a new client a couple of days ago, Kurtis Benson.  He failed to call in as expected yesterday, and my calls to his house went unanswered, so I went over to check up on him.  I'm there now.  His door is locked, but I can see through the window.  He’s dead.  There's blood everywhere, and there's a huge knife sticking out of his chest.  It’s like a slaughterhouse.  I think you should send someone over here as quickly as possible.”

       “Don't touch a thing, and I'll have some of my detectives there as soon as possible.  Please wait for them to arrive.  Tell me where you are.” Harmon replies.

       “Thanks.  I'm at 945 Alsacia Street, in Paradise Mesa.  Please, send someone with a strong stomach.  It’s a real mess in there.”

       Harmon hangs up the phone, exits his office, and calls out to Olson, “Olson, take Ramirez and Garrison with you and report to 945 Alsacia, a large lavender Victorian.  See the man there, a Josh Franklin concerning a stabbing.  The victim is one of his clients.  Franklin's a PO.  It appears his client was only released Tuesday.”

       “Right away, Sir!  Come on, Alice, Lewis.  Let's get cooking!”  Olson replies, snatching her coat from the back of her chair and heading out the door.  Ramirez grumbles something under her breath to the effect that Olson has far too much enthusiasm and energy for this early in the morning, surmising that she must have downed a case of energy drinks or a few pots of coffee to have that much energy.

       The trio exits the squad room, rides the elevator down to the garage, and enters Olson's Buick.  Being that they are using Olson’s car, they grudgingly allow her to drive.  Ramirez thinks that Olson drives like she wants to qualify for the Indy 500.

       Garrison simply feels that she tends to omit certain things, such as decelerating or signaling when changing lanes or turning corners.  She starts the car, quickly backs out, swerves, causing her tires to squeal loudly, and heads north.

       During the drive, the three detectives chat about their weekends, the upcoming baseball season, and just about everything else other than work.  The reality of their job will hit them soon enough when they have to investigate the scene.

9

       Arriving at the scene, the trio exits their car and approach Franklin.

       “Josh Franklin?” Olson asks.

       “That's right.”

       “I'm detective Olson, and these are my partners, Detectives Ramirez and Garrison.  Can you tell us what happened, sir?”

       “Well, like I said when I called, Benson failed to call in yesterday as he was supposed to, and wouldn't answer the phone, so I wanted to make sure he was still in town.  I got here about 9:25.  That's when I knocked and received no answer.  I then looked in the window, and saw him lying there in a pool of blood with that knife sticking out of his chest.” Franklin replies.

       “Thank you, Mr. Franklin, we'll take it from here.  Please go with Detective Ramirez so she can take your statement and have you sign it.” Olson says, pointing toward Ramirez.

       “Fine, and thanks for coming so soon.  I'm a bit surprised that nobody called anything in, I mean, he musta screamed his head off.  Of course, in this part of town, people never see or hear anything,” Franklin says, as he walks away with Ramirez toward Olson's car. 

10

       Having dusted Benson’s door knob for fingerprints with negative results, detectives Olson and Garrison call a lock smith to come open the door, and he arrives fifteen minutes later and has the lock open in five minutes.  Despite the outrageous fee he lists for his services, they give him a voucher that he needs to take to the courthouse for his reimbursement, and enter the house after he leaves grumbling about red tape and how hard it is for a man to make an honest buck. 

       Leaving his evidence kit on the porch, Garrison leads the way into the home, with Olson following close behind.  They notice the overwhelmingly sweet, metallic stench of blood at once and glance toward the body.  Olson almost retches when she sees the eight large gaping holes in the body.  Garrison quickly snaps several photos.  He points out to Olson the outline on the wall where a TV once sat, and the white ring around Benson's tanned wrist where the watch was removed. 

       Garrison goes to the front porch to retrieve his evidence kit.  Upon returning, he opens several sterile cotton pads and allows them to collect some of the still slightly wet blood from the various pools that have formed on the wooden floor.  These he sets aside to air-dry while finishing his photographic work and visual inspection of the immediate area.

       Dusting the inside of the door and the knife handle for fingerprints produces negative results, and the conclusion is easily drawn that the killer appears to have worn gloves, as would have been expected in this type of case.  Since no fingerprints have been found to this point, Garrison decides that dusting for prints for the remainder of the investigation is most likely pointless and a waste of time.

       The detectives look at the front door, finding nothing unusual.  They enter the kitchen, and notice the plate on the table.  Garrison takes a photo of the plate and table, and the detectives conclude their preliminary crime scene investigation. 

       Garrison, having finished his initial investigation of the crime scene, unclips his cellular phone from his belt and calls the department’s lone crime scene investigator.

       The department has limited resources for crime scene investigation, and feels fortunate that Garrison has studied forensic science, as he can do much of the collection at the scenes that he investigates.  He still feels the need to call the CSI though, to verify his findings as well as to devote more of his time to traditional police work.

       “I have a hot one for you, Tony.  I already dusted for prints, and there is zip there.  I also collected some blood from a puddle on the floor.  That is all sealed and ready for analysis.  I’ll leave the rest to you.  Only Olson and I have been inside, and the scene is in no way compromised.  You have my personal guarantee on that score.”

       “Ok, Lew.  Be there in about twenty.”

       Twenty minutes later, the yellow Chevy Nova carrying the department’s crime scene investigator, Tony Lambretta, pulls up.  Lambretta exits the car, looking, as usual, as though he hasn’t slept for a week.  His rumpled sport coat is at least ten years out of fashion.  He wears the coat over an open collared shirt, revealing numerous gold chains around his neck.  For Garrison, the final straw is Lambretta’s Angel’s Flight slacks and bowling shoes.

       “Tony, when are you going to get with the program. This is the nineties, not the seventies.  I mean, really, you, my friend, are a fashion disaster.”

       “Lew, you know fashion, I’m ahead of my time.  Retro is in, and this is as Retro as you can get.  Mark my words, by next year, everyone will dress like me.”

       “Whatever, Tony.  Come on, let me show you the scene.”

       Lambretta and Garrison climb the steps into the living room, and Garrison points out the area where the TV once sat, the white wrist, and the bloodstains.  Lambretta points toward the door, “Out, Lew.  This is my scene now.  I’ll have a report for you as soon as possible.  Let me do my thing, and I need to do it alone.”

       “I know, Tony.  Thanks, and if you ever need fashion advice, let me know.”

       “Lew, with your tie dyes and jeans, you’re not exactly modern.”

       “But, the Dead, or at least the various bands of its members and countless tribute bands, are still around, Tony.  Disco is dead, or haven’t you heard?”

       “Not dead, Lew, just dormant.  It’s waiting for the right moment to spring forth from its ashes, like a Phoenix.  Now get outta here,” Lambretta replies, laughing. 

       As Garrison closes the door, Lambretta gets to work on the immediate area.  Mentally dividing the living room into square sectors, Lambretta crawls on hands and knees, examining each sector carefully for the minutest of evidence.  Holding his magnifying glass in his right hand, he carefully looks for any strange fibers, hairs, soil, or anything else that seems not to belong.  He knows that, by the rule of mutual exchange, anything that the killer has come into contact with should leave some trace evidence, just as he or she would have picked up evidence at the scene. 

       The search of the living room takes over an hour, and Lambretta rises, cracks his back and heads to the kitchen.  The same scene is repeated here, and as Lambretta rises and heads to the front door, he puts the steak bone in a zip-lock bag that he labels with his initials, the date and the time.  Opening the door, he tells Garrison that there was absolutely nothing to be found in the living room, and that the kitchen only held the bone, and that a search of the other rooms, apart from possibly providing motive, such as robbery, would likely reveal very little that would help identify the killer.

       Garrison calls the coroner to come claim the body and the detectives head out to canvass the neighbors to see if anyone saw or heard anything, with Garrison placing the now dry cotton pads in zip-lock bags which he labels with the time, date, and his initials.  These bags are then handed to Lambretta, who waves on his way to the Nova.

       After spending nearly three and a half hours knocking on every door within a two-block radius, the team is no better off than they were before.  The vast majority of the residents in this area tend to be distrustful of police to begin with, and, expectedly, claim to have nothing to say.  The trio heads back to headquarters in a surly mood, knowing that this case is far from solved and may require a great deal or work that none feels is truly warranted, since the victim was a criminal himself.  In fact, they say to each other out of earshot of anyone else, he probably did the world a favor by getting himself killed.

       After hearing the details of the case, detective Firmii mentions that the case sounds sort of like a repeat of what Benson himself did.  He was a stabber and thief, after all.  Firmii suggests that the coroner do an analysis of the contents of Benson's stomach, and bets Olson fifty bucks that no steak will be found, since he heard Benson converted to vegetarianism while in Prison as a means of keeping more physically fit and gaining strength.  He also states that he hears through informants that Benson believed a vegetarian diet would make the effects of the drugs more intense.

11

       The brief story in the metro section of San Garcia Dispatch lays out only the very barest of facts : 

Paroled murderer Kurtis Benson, age 37, was found dead in his Paradise Mesa home yesterday.  Benson was paroled just Tuesday after serving nine and a half years of a fifteen year sentence for manslaughter.  Benson was discovered by his parole officer after failing to report in. 

Benson died as a result of multiple stab wounds.  As readers will recall, Benson himself stabbed aspiring actress Ingrid Newborn in 1989.  Police have no suspect at this time.

       The Vindicator reads the morning paper over coffee, as usual.  A wide smile of satisfaction spreads across his face.  Everything went so easily!  That has to be a sign.  This is more than just a mission.  It is his destiny.  He was meant to be the final judge, jury and executioner of those that the so-called “justice system” was unable or unwilling to deal with appropriately.  He vows to himself, “I will continue this mission, fulfilling my destiny, until I am no longer able to breathe air as a free man.”

       The Vindicator finishes his breakfast, and heads out the door to work, pleased to be giving himself almost two hours to make the hour long drive.  As he prepares to enter his car, he pauses, thinking there is something he is forgetting.  He shrugs his shoulders, and when reaching into his pocket for his keys, feels the bulge of the watch.  He is wearing his watch, and remembers with a start that he hasn't disposed of Benson's watch. 

       He quickly opens his trunk, removes the small shovel he keeps there and digs a hole, approximately a foot deep in his flowerbed.  He drops the watch into the hole.  Using the shovel more as a trowel, he quickly covers the catch with the rich, loose soil. 

       He brushes his pants off, replaces the shovel, closes the trunk, and glances at his watch.  His efforts have taken only fifteen minutes, and he is pleased that he still has plenty of time to get to work on time.  He enters his car, places the key in the ignition and starts the engine.  After lighting his first cigarette of the day, which he rolled by hand that morning, he backs out slowly and heads toward the highway.  His mind is focused on the day's work as he heads toward his office.

12

       At San Garcia Police Headquarters, emotions are running high, as the Mayor, Victoria Hiatt, has demanded that the murder of Benson get top priority, since she doesn't want to ignite a fire of vigilantism.  She is also concerned with the media, since they tend to exploit such cases for ratings. 

       Harmon tells the three-man team of Olson, Ramirez and Garrison to do everything in their power to determine who was responsible for Benson's murder.  Almost as an afterthought, he tells Firmii and Bernard to help with any interviews of Newborn's family members, just in case any of them may have gotten the notion of revenge.  He tells all the squad to make this their top priority until a new case comes in. 

       Harmon stresses that, statistically speaking, it is most likely a payback crime, that someone who was somehow wronged or harmed by Benson felt the need to exact justice for his crime and, apparently, did so.  The crime scene investigation revealed nothing to identify the killer, so interviews of possible witnesses are the only hope they have of solving the case. 

       Detective Anita Olson lifts the receiver from her desk.  She punches in the extension for the evidence room.  Upon hearing the voice of the evidence technician on the line, she states, “Pete, do me a favor.  Look up Kurtis Benson’s file.  I need to know if Newborn has any living relatives.  I'll wait.”

       “Okay, gimme a minute....” Pete replies.

       Olson impatiently taps her fingers on the desktop as she waits for Pete to return.  It seems to take hours, but when she glances at her watch, she finds it has only been three minutes.  She is well aware that people tend to exaggerate  time when anxiously waiting for something.

       When Pete comes back on the phone, she sighs with relief, as he tells her “Okay, Anita.  Looks like the only living relative is a brother.  One Daniel Lanoir, lives at 5643 26th St., Apartment 17B.  That was her birth name, by the way.  She legally changed her name to Newborn when she started acting.  Never married, it appears, and the name change caused some upset within the family.”

       Glad to have at least a small lead, Olson speaks into the phone, “Thanks, Pete.  I owe you one.”

       “Don't mention it, Anita.  Just doin' my job, ya know?”

       Olson hangs up the phone, and rises from the padded leather chair at her desk.  She heads towards Harmon's office to tell him what she has found. 

       Crossing the room, Olson knocks on the door lightly.  Harmon's voice booms from the office, “Enter.”

       “LT, it looks like we have a lead.  Newborn had a brother.  His name is Daniel Lanoir.  He lives in an apartment over on 26th Street.  If anyone has a vendetta, it would likely be him.” Anita tells him, laying out the information she gained from Pete.

       “Good work, Olson.” Harmon states, guiding her toward the door, following on her heels.

       Exiting his office, Harmon shouts to the other assembled detectives, “OK, only one living relative, a brother.  Daniel Lanoir.  Olson has his address.  Anita! Alice!  You two go on over and interview him.  Firmii! Bernard!  Go back to the neighborhood and see if anyone is home that wasn't there yesterday.  Even if there isn't, ask again if anyone saw or heard anything at all.  Any strange cars, anyone they don't recognize.  Garrison!  You man the phones here, I have a meeting with the Police Chief.”

13

       On the drive to Lanoir's apartment, Olson and Ramirez discuss Harmon's appearance, noting how disheveled he appeared today.

       Olson, with a tone of concern in her voice, asks, “Alice, did you notice how LT looked today?”

       “Yeah.  I guess he musta not slept much last night.  Or maybe he's sick.” Ramirez replies.

       “I'm not so sure that's all it is.  Maybe I'm just making a mountain out of a molehill, but he's usually so meticulous, this isn't like him at all.”

       Before they can come to any conclusion on the matter, they pull across the street from Lanoir's apartment building.  As Olson puts the car in park along the curb next to a fire hydrant, Ramirez pulls out a placard from the glove compartment reading “Police - official business” and places it face up on the dash.  “Great perks, eh?  Never hafta search for a place to park.” She says, smiling.

       Exiting the vehicle, they lock the doors and walk across the street.  They find the apartment unit they are looking for at the top of the stairs and knock on the door loudly. 

       An angry voice from within the small two-roomer says, “Just a minute!”

       “Police, Mr. Lanoir.” Olson states.

       “Coming, just let me get some pants on, please,” he replies, angrily.

       The door opens two minutes later, and a man appearing to be in his late thirties appears.  It appears he was disturbed from a deep sleep and is none to pleased about it.

       “May I ask what this is about?” Lanoir asks, angrily.

       “We have some questions to ask you, may we come in, or would you prefer to go downtown?” Ramirez replies.

       “Come on in.” he says, reluctantly opening the door.

       “Thank you, I'm Detective Ramirez and this is my partner, Detective Olson.  We're from homicide.”

       “Wait a minute here, who got killed?” Lanoir asks, shocked.

       “Kurtis Benson,” Olson states.

       “Scum deserves it.  So, someone strung him up in his cell, or what?” Lanoir replies, actually sounding relieved.

       “He was paroled Tuesday,” Ramirez says, “didn't you know that?”

       “I've been out of town for the last two weeks at a convention.” Lanoir replies, with a tone of surprise in his voice.

       “I see,” says Ramirez, “did anyone see you there?”

       “Only about three thousan people or so.” Lanoir replies, dropping the d from thousand.  “I lectured to groups of about two hundred and fitty to three hundred people every day on increasing their sales volume.”

       “Do you have any names of people that can corroborate that you were there?” Olson asks, making notes in a small spiral bound book.

       Lanoir replies, somewhat defensively, “Certainly, Jack Johansson, my boss.”

       “OK, sir.  Do you know anyone else that would have a reason to want to see Benson dead?  Do you know anyone who would kill him?  Did you, yourself, hire someone to do so?” Olson asks.

       “No, I did not!  And, as far as anyone else wanting him dead, how about any decent American?  I mean, scum like that don't deserve to breathe the same air as normal people!” Lanoir replies, back to his angry mode again.

       “OK, Sir.  May we have a phone number where Mr. Johansson can be reached?” Ramirez asks.

       “Sure, here's his card, over five hundred locations, coast to coast.  Largest used car chain in the country!” states Lanoir as he hands them a business card from a box on the table.  “Johnny J's Pre Owned Auto Kingdom” is emblazoned in embossed gold across the top of the card.

       “Thank you, sir, and, until further notice, don't leave town.” Olson states.

       “Hey, I'm a traveling manager.  My job requires that I leave town and lecture to sales groups.  I hafta leave town next Friday, in fact.  Tucson.  I'll try to reschedule it, if I can, though.” Lanoir practically shouts.

       “OK, sir,” Ramirez states, “then can you please give us a twenty-four hour notice when you are going to leave, until advised differently.”

       “OK, whatever.” Lanoir states.

       Olson and Ramirez leave the apartment, and as they are climbing back into the car, Olson asks, “Do you think he had anything to do with it?”

       “Nah, not bright enough to plot something so intricate as to murder for hire.  Did you see the reading material on his coffee table?  TV Guide and Playboy.  I doubt he's read a novel or watched the news since he was a teenager, if then.  I think being a used car salesman is all he is capable of.  Of course, that itself should be an offense worthy of life without parole.  Anyway, aside from my dislike of used car salesmen, I think that if he were capable of more, why would he have made a career out of selling marginally operable junkers?” Ramirez says, chuckling.

       “You're probably right.” Olson replies.  “He probably doesn’t have enough brain power to find his way out of a maze with a map and lighted exit signs every ten feet.”

       They pull away from the curb, tires squealing.  Here is absolutely no conversation on the drive back to the police station.

       Upon returning to the office, they type up their notes from the interview, frustrated that nothing seems to have developed from it. 

14

       Firmii and Bernard aren't faring much better, meanwhile.  Their exhaustive canvass of the neighborhood has turned up nothing at all.  No one has seen any strange cars or strangers.  At least, they all claim they haven't.  Frustrated, they begin to go back to their car, when Firmii notices an elderly lady waving to him.

       “Yes, Miss...,” Firmii asks.

       “Nguyen.  Mrs. Trinh Nguyen.  I see man, I think it was Wednesday.  The man was not from here.  He was dirty, and he looked drunk.  He was here around five o'clock, when my son come home from work.”

       “Did anyone ask you yesterday about this man?” Bernard asks, making notes.

       “No, I was not home yesterday, I was at a doctor's appointment.  I needed medicine for a laceration on my foot.” she replies.

       “What did this man look like?” Firmii asks.

       “He was tall, probably close to six feet.  Thin, very very thin. He had brown hair with gray spots.  He was very dirty, and had hair on face.  His eyes sort of stuck out of face.” She replies, her eyes never leaving Firmii’s face.

       “He had a mustache?  A beard?” questions Bernard.

       “Not a beard, really, just little hair, right here,” she says, pointing just under her lower lip, “but he did have a  mustache.  I did not see him that well, since my glasses were in house and I was outside, but I see OK enough to know I do not know him from around here.” She replies.

       “Thank you.  We'll look into this.  We might need to talk to you again.” Firmii states, closing his notebook.

       “All right, officer.  Glad I was able to help.” she says, a tinge of pride creeping into her voice.

       Firmii remarks on her use of proper English and exact speech pattern, which he finds uncommon among her generation of Viet Namese.  He learns that she teaches English as a Second Language and learned English herself only 10 years ago. He remarks how wonderful this is, and again thanks her for her assistance.

       Firmii and Bernard head back to the station house at top speed to get this information to Harmon.  This may be the first solid lead they have in the case. 

15

       Back at the station house, Garrison is lounging at his desk, and is startled awake by the phone.  It isn't the published homicide phone number, but his own private line, that rings.

       “Hello?” Garrison asks.

       “Yeah, Luigi's pizza?  We need 3 large pies, with the works,” replies the teenaged voice on the other end of the line.

       “I'm sorry, you have the wrong number.” Garrison replies, stifling the anger he feels.

       “HA HA HA HA HA HA - SUCKER!!!”

       Garrison slams the phone down, “Stupid kids, crank-calls have been outta style since the seventies.”

       Olson and Ramirez step into the squad room, immediately followed by Bernard and Firmii.  Garrison asks, “OK, so what we got?”

       “Well, Lew, the brother turned out negative.  Out of town, and not bright enough to hire someone else to do it.  He talks a good game, but is a dim bulb,” says Olson.

       “OK, What you got, Ryan, Dan?” Garrison asks.

       “Well, we have a lead, of sorts.  It appears a disheveled gentleman was seen in the area Wednesday evening.  Sounds like an undomiciled gentleman.  The best the witness could give us was a vague description.  Maybe we can ask for help from the news jerks and they can broadcast the description and see if anything turns up.” Firmii replies.

       “Good idea.  Glad I thought of it, Ryan.” says Garrison, smiling, “Let's see if the LT thinks we should call a press conference now and avoid he suspicion of a cover-up. But come on, undomiciled?  Cut the pseudo-PC garbage and call him homeless.”

16

       Harmon having agreed that a press conference was a good idea, the media is gathered around hungrily snapping up the details.

       The flash of cameras and lights nearly blind him as Harmon steps from his office.  He goes to a podium emblazoned with a SGPD badge and addresses the reporters, noticing that both local TV news crews are there, along with the major network affiliates from San Francisco.

       “OK, I'll make this brief.  We have a lead in the murder of Kurt Benson.  A gentleman was seen in the area about three or four hours before what we believe may have been the approximate time of death.  The only description we have is as follows: approximately six feet tall, slight build, brown hair speckled with gray.  The witness said he was dirty and had bulging eyes.  He appeared intoxicated.  He was described further as having a bushy mustache, and a small patch of hair on his chin, just below his lower lip.  The public can be of great assistance if they can tell us who this man is.  That's all, thank you.”

       Harmon turns and goes back into his office, ignoring the questions being shouted at him from the reporters.  He sinks into his chair, feeling that the murder of Benson may never be solved, with so little to go on.

17

       Later that evening, as Olson and Ramirez sit in a corner booth at their favorite after-work hangout, Monella's, enjoying a cold beer and a basket of hot, fresh garlic bread sticks, they discuss the frustration they feel as a result of the lack of information.

       “You would think that someone would have seen something, you know?” Olson states, the anger in her voice evident.

       “I know, Alice, but a lot of people in that neighborhood are not exactly trustful of cops, and some with good reason.  Don't forget, it was less than a year ago that the young man was shot for carrying his own TV down the street, after he had gotten it out of pawn.  The officer involved said he thought the kid was reaching into his waistband for a gun.  The kid was a straight A student and the sole support for his infirm mother and younger brother.”

       “I know, but, still...  I guess it's just that, if someone got killed on my street, and I knew anything at all, I'd want them to find the killer, so I wouldn't be next.”

       “I know, but some of these people are better armed than we are, so they don't fear someone breaking in.  A fully automatic AK-47 is, regardless of what the governor might say, a great deterrent to robbery.”

       “I know...  Hey, Dan and Ryan just walked in.  Should I call them over?”

       “Sure, why not.”

       “Dan, Ryan, over here, guys, join us.”

       Firmii and Bernard wave to their colleagues and walk to their table.  Firmii pulls over an extra chair to set his briefcase on and summons Maria, the waitress.

       “Maria, I'll have a pitcher of Coke, and a half order of shells with meat sauce, extra garlic.”

       Maria scribbles the order onto her pad.  “And you, Dan?”

       “Just a pitcher of Miller Lite for me, thanks.” Bernard replies.

       Maria ambles off to fetch the drinks, as Firmii looks at his partner “Drowning some sorrows there, Partner?”

        “Nah, just feel like forgetting this case for a few hours.”

       “I hear you there, Dan,” says Olson.

       “I'll drink to that!” Ramirez says, as she raises her glass.

       “Be back in a few, I need a smoke.  I hate this new law.  Can’t even smoke inside anymore.  What freedom are they gonna take away next?” Bernard says, rising from the table and heading outside. 

       In Bernard’s absence, Firmii mildly and jokingly flirts with Olson, who comically rebuffs him, knowing it is all in good fun.  Ramirez groans at their tired, and to her, not so funny jokes.  She is just rising from the table to go to the phone and take a break from her friend’s as Bernard returns.
       “Well, guys, I'm calling it a night, and since I drove, Alice, you have a choice, come with me or catch a ride with these guys.” Olson states, rising from the table.

       “I'm coming with you, Anita.  At least I know you won't try anything funny.” Alice sates, as she winks at Dan and Ryan.

       “See you guys tomorrow, then.” says Olson, as they head for the door.

       “Later, ladies.” says Bernard, working on his third pitcher of the evening.

       Bernard and Firmii start an in depth discussion of their predictions for the World Series and the hours drag on into the early hours of the morning

18

       Irene Simpson enters the large conference room at Sacramento's largest private mental hospital and sits nervously at the table, facing the panel of straight paced men across from her.  She folds her hands as she waits to hear why she was called into the room.

       The director of the hospital where she has been residing for the last six years is first to address her.

       “Good Morning, Irene.  I know you are probably wondering why we called you here/”

       “Why, Yes I am.  I have been doing my best not to cause problems and I am quite sure that I haven't done anything to warrant any discipline.”

       “That's very true.  In fact, the reason we have summoned you is the exact opposite.  Are you familiar with the conditional release program?”

       “No, I am not.  I haven't heard much news since I have been here, and before I came here, I was not exactly the mist lucid person.”

       “I understand.  Let me tell you about the program and see if you are interested.  The program permits us to release certain low risk patients, regardless of the events that lead them to be a resident here, under very strict conditions.  First of all, you will be required to attend weekly group therapy sessions, as well as daily case management meetings.  You will also be required to undergo random drug testing, as well as have lifetime administrative parole.  That is, you do not meet with a parole officer, instead, you simply keep your nose clean and call in if you are having any problems or plan to ,eave the area for any reason.  In this case, the 'area' is a relative term, as I will describe in a minute.  The final requirement is that you live where we tell you.  We have certain programs that have agreed to assist us with this, and provide all of the needed services.  We have a program we have found for you in San Garcia.  They not only have therapy and case management, but they also offer a housing program.  This program is normally limited to three months, but in your case, it will last until you can transition to their long-term program, which is less structured.  The short term program is semi-supervised, that is they do random bed checks, and so forth,.  The long-term program is independent living.  Before you answer, you should know, a single mistake on your part, that is, one missed call, one missed therapy session, one missed case management meeting, one dirty drug test, or whatever, you are right back here.  If you are sick, you can call in to your case worker and they will OK missed sessions, ut you do need to check in.  Knowing how this works, are you interested?”

       “Definitely.  You don't need to worry about me.  I'm a new person, thanks to the meds, and    I will definitely not do anything to jeopardize my freedom.  Thank you for this chance.”

       “You've earned it.  You did the hard work.  You struggled along with us to find the right meds, and you did the therapy work to learn coping skills.  Good luck, and congratulations.  You will be leaving Wednesday.”

19

       As they arrive at work, Olson and Ramirez are less than enthusiastic about the day ahead.  They have court Tuesday, on two separate cases, so they have to spend the rest of the day reviewing the case files.  Olson gets an idea and asks Ramirez to excuse her for a moment.

       Five minutes later, Olson taps Ramirez on the shoulder with a big smile on her face,  “Come on, Chica, let's get outta this place!”

       “What are you talking about?” Ramirez asks.

       “Harmon said we can review the cases off site, so we are not distracted.  Let's go to my place and we can relax and get ready for the trials.  All we have to do is be within pager range, and be able to return any calls.”

       “Great!  Let's go!” Ramirez states, rising from her chair. “I could use a change of scenery to clear my mind.  Let's get outta this place.” 

       As they are leaving the office, Firmii and Bernard walk in, wearing the same clothes as the night before and looking as if neither has slept.

20

       Later that morning, Olson and Ramirez are in Olson's apartment with their notes spread on the floor in front of them, reading the case files and munching pretzels.

       “I don't know this about this guy.  I would be surprised if he doesn't cop a plea, Alice, I mean, he could easily get man two, if he went for it.  He could claim it was a crime of passion, after all, he did kill his sister's abusive ex-husband.” Olson says, with a tinge of exasperation in her voice.  “Although, motive is a major point against him, and he has no verifiable alibi.  I guess there is an outside chance someone else did the killing, just like he claims.”

       “It's Italian pride, he thinks his family connections will keep him out of prison, or at least keep him safe when he in inside.” Ramirez replies, sounding distracted.

       “Yeah, but the victim, Franky Simi was just a runner for some small time hood.  If the motive was revenge for being ripped off, I doubt they'd waste their time with this guy.  They'd go for the boss, after all, why would anyone stick his neck out to kill a nobody?  I mean, his family isn't rich enough to buy his safety.”  Olson says, witj a quizzical look on her face.

       “Look at the perp's name.  Rafael Giangello.  What if I told you he changed it, and his real name was Gigliotti.   Ralphie's a Gigliotti.  His uncle is Giuseppe Gigliotti , you know, Joey Giggles.” Ramirez tells her, happy to be the one to notice something first, for a change.

       Giuseppe, AKA Beppe, Gigliotti got his nickname of “Joey Giggles” early in his career, long before becoming head of the largest of Northern California’s Mafia families.  Gigloitti started out as an enforcer for the DeSebella family.  His habit of giggling while repeatedly hitting people in the knee with a lead pipe quickly became legend.

       “OK.  ‘Family’ pride... family as in Mafia...  makes sense.   Let's hope the IBM's don't get out of hand.”  Olson replies, smacking herself lightly on the forehead and chuckling.

       “IBM's?  What do computers have to do with anything?” Ramirez asks, with a look of confusion on her face, “Have you finally lost it, girl?”

       “No, Alice, Italian Business Men.” Olson replies, laughing at her own joke.

       “Ah...” Ramirez laughs, “Let's get back to work...  not too much time left until I'll be ready to take a lunch break.  This case is giving me a headache”

       “You always have to ruin the fun...” Olson smiles, returning to the task at hand.

21

       Monday morning, the phone on Garrison's desk rings.  This is not his private line, but the anonymous “tips” line, which offers a reward if a conviction results.  “Great, someone out to make a fast buck,” he thinks, as he picks it up.

       “Hello?”

       “Yeah, man.  Call me Snake.  I don't want no money, and I ain't gonna go to court to help you pigs.  I just can't live with it anymore man, I gotta come clean.  That drive by last May, the one where that baseball player was killed?  Man, look for Juan Dominguez, from Los Coyotes.  He's the one that done it.  Used his own car, even.”

       Click.  The line hangs up.

       Garrison calls out, “Yo, LT, we got a possible lead on that Davis case. Anonymous tip says Juan Dominguez did it.  Member of Los Coytoes.  You want me to roll on it?”

       “Nah, let's send it down to street division.  If it's just a search and arrest, I'm sure they can handle that without us holding their hands.” Harmon replies through his open office door.

       “OK, I'll take it down to the duty officer.  Be right back.”  Garrison replies, heading out the door.

       “Make it quick.” Harmon replies. 

22

       Officers Michael Reardon and Timothy Greene enter the chambers of the Honorable Greyson Jones. 

       “Sir, “ states Greene, “we had an anonymous tip that Juan Dominguez was responsible for that drive by shooting where the baseball player, Steven Davis, was killed.”

       “You got the paperwork filled out?” asks Judge Jones.

       “Yes, sir, we do.” Reardon replies.

       “Let's have it.” Jones says, sticking out his left hand.

       The Judge studies the form.  Looking at the paper, he states, “house, garage, car, looking for 9 mm semiautomatic, possibly an Uzi or Mac- 10.  Looks to be in order.  Here ya go.”

       Jones signs the search and arrest warrants, and wishes Reardon and Greene well.  As they exit his chambers, he sinks into his chair.  “Kid would have to be pretty dumb to keep the gun,” he thinks, “but then again, guns do cost money, even on the street.” 

23

       Reardon and Greene pulled the marked unit to the curb in front of the house Dominguez shares with his girlfriend.  They go to the door silently.

       Greene shouts “Police!  Search warrant!” as he kicks the door off of its hinges.  A startled Latina jumps from the couch, running to the bedroom, covering her nudity with her hands as she screams “Juan!  Juan!  Policia!”

       Dominguez emerges from the bathroom pulling up faded jeans, and asks, “What ya want?  Ya better have a warrant, or you ain't gonna get crap from me, man!”

       Greene hands him the search warrant, which he glances at.  “Ya wanna look in the house, man?  I ain't got no garage, but go ahead, you ain't gonna find nothin'.  I ain't done nothin', man.  I'm jus' a schoolboy.  Look all ya want.”

       “Thanks,” says Greene, as he yanks the pillows off the couch, tossing them onto the floor, “I will.” 

       Meanwhile, Reardon starts emptying drawers from the entertainment center in the living room.  He moves to the bookshelf, pulling volumes from the shelf, tossing them on the floor and knocking various statues and other assorted “trophies” from the shelves along the way.  After a few minutes, the room is a mess, and he moves onto the kitchen, where basically the same scene is repeated.

       Greene searches the sparse bedroom and bathroom without success, and is staring out the window in frustration when he notices an aluminum storage shed in the back yard.  He stalks through the living room, feeling the stares of Dominguez and his girlfriend, now clothed, burn into his back as he stalks out the front door to his patrol unit.

       Greene opens the trunk, pulls out his bolt cutters, slams the trunk and marches through the side yard, through the open gate to the back and over to the shed.  He snaps the cheap padlock with a swift motion of the bolt cutters and opens the door.  There, on the floor, under a pile of oily rags, he sees the folding stock of a modified Uzi.  He grabs the gun, exits the shed, and yells to Reardon, “Cuff him, Mike, we got the gun!”

       Greene walks over to Dominguez, shoves him against the wall, and says, “Juan Dominguez, you are under arrest for the murder of Steven Davis, you have the right to remain silent...”

24

       Sitting in the sparsely furnished interview room, Dominguez seems a bit cocky.  Looking at Reardon, he smile a toothy grin and says, “Man, ya ain't gonna get me to talk.  Only person I'll talk to is a lawyer.  An' I ain't got no money, so ya gotta gimme a lawyer.”

       Greene leaves the room, to talk to his supervisors and have a public defender assigned to the case.  As soon as he is out the door, Reardon picks Dominguez up by his collar and slams him against the wall.  “You little punk! I outta off ya right now, save the tax payers some cash.  You think you're a big man, don’t ya?  How big do you feel now?”  With that, he slams his knee into Dominguez's groin area.

       Greene returns moments later.  Seeing Dominguez on the floor, he looks at Reardon who simply says, “He fell.”

       Greene looks at Dominguez and says, “Your lawyer, Hector Jiminez, will be here in awhile.  If you feel like talking after he gets here, let us know.”

       “Man, that dude kicked me.” Dominguez grunts from the floor.

       “Prove it, punk!” Reardon says, walking out the door. 

25

       After a brief discussion in private with his new client, Hector Jiminez leaves the room and addresses Reardon and Greene.   Looking at Greene, with a bit of a gleam in his eye, he states simply, “Gentlemen, it looks like we'll see you in court.  We have no statements at this time.”  Walking away, Jiminez whistles softly.

       The short discussion has the pair of officers puzzled, since there is no doubt of Dominguez's guilt.  They have no idea what's going on, but shrug it off and head back to their squad car to go on “preventative patrol” at the local donut shop.

26

       Friday morning, officers Greene and Reardon arrive at the arraignment of Dominguez just as the judge is being seated.  They are surprised that his arraignment came so suddenly, and congratulate themselves, thinking that a plea bargain must be in order due to their excellent and expedient work.

       “San Garcia County Court House, Department fifteen is now in session.  The Honorable William Hart presiding.  Be seated.  First case on the docket your Honor is Case number H-four-three-seven-six-nine-nine, People versus Dominguez.” states Clerk James Reynolds.

       “Thank you, Jim.  Will council please introduce themselves.”

       “Yes, your honor,” states the assistant District Attorney as he rises, “Daniel Drough for the people, sir.”

       “Mr. Dominguez, do you have council?”  Hart asks.

       “Yes, Your honor, “, states public defender Hector Jiminez, “I am Hector Jiminez, and I represent Mr. Dominguez.  I want to save the court some time your honor, and ask for an immediate dismissal.”

       “On what grounds, if I may ask.”  Hart asks, puzzled.

       “Your Honor, the evidence against my client was illegally obtained.” Jiminez states.

       “Your Honor, the police had a search warrant,” states Drough.

       “That is true, but it stated the house and car, not the storage shed,” states Jiminez.

       “Let me see the warrant, please, “ Hart asks. 

       After reviewing the document, Hart sates, “He's right, Mr.  Jamison, the warrant doesn't mention the shed at all, and therefore, the gun is fruit of the poisoned tree.  Do you have any other evidence binding the defendant to the crime?”

       “Your Honor, his car was seen leaving the scene.”  Drough replies, desperate to save the case.

       “Your Honor, the police report states that a tan Plymouth Valiant was seen leaving the scene, my client has a primer gray Dodge Dart,” states Jiminez, “so how could 'his' car have been seen leaving the scene.”

       “Mr. Drough, if that all you have, I have no other choice than to grant Defense's request for a dismissal, and I would like to see you in my chambers.  Mr. Dominguez, you are free to go.  Case dismissed,” says Hart, as he pounds his gavel, “Jim, give me about thirty minutes before calling the next case. 

27

       In his chambers, Judge William Hart and District Attorney Daniel Drough sit sipping iced tea.

       “OK, Dan, who dropped the ball?” Hart asks, with a tinge of anger in his voice.

       “Bill, what do we go back, fifteen years?  I tell you, this is the guy.  Some green cop getting his first felony arrest reacted without thinking.  He shoulda called in and had the warrant amended, waited for the new warrant to arrive, and then gone into the shed.” Drough replies, hurt that his friend should blame him, even indirectly, for the failure to bring this case to a fitting conclusion.

       “Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda, Dan.  Don't help now.  They messed up and I had to drop the case.  You know and I know that it is a real travesty of justice.  That scum is guilty.  We both know that.  But he got off free.  Man, I think you better call the cops in and teach a class on how to get a proper warrant.”  Hart says, his anger ebbing somewhat.

       “Bill, believe me, heads will roll over this.  We can't use the gun, so he gets off free, but next time he screws up, we'll get him, and he will screw up again, they always do.”  Drough replies, draining his glass.

       “Yeah, but I hate to see another innocent victim die first.”  Hart says, looking at the wall beyond Drough's head.

       “Me too, Bill, Me Too...”

28

       In a coffee shop, listening to the chatter on his scanner, the Vindicator shakes his head with disgust.  How can that dirtbag Dominguez get off?  A storage shed?  Stupid rookie shoulda known you stick to what's on the warrant.  Now because of his mistake, a killer roams the streets a free man.

       He thinks, “I'll wipe that smug grin off his greasy face.  He'll feel what it's like to have your body ripped apart with hot lead.  After all, my job is to administer justice.  It's what I live for.  I'm just doing my job.  If I don’t get paid for this part of the job, it doesn’t matter.  My payment will be in the next life.  I’ll be given wealth and freedom beyond my wildest dreams after this life on Earth has ended.”

29

       In the ladies' locker room at police headquarters, Olson and Ramirez are changing into their seldom worn uniforms, since they have to report to the firing range to renew their handgun qualifications. 

       “Nervous, Alice?  You haven't practiced as long as I've known you, Chica.  And I know neither of us has been in a situation where we have been forced to draw our weapons in a real-life situation.”  Olson asks her partner and best friend.

       “You haven’t practiced, either, Anita.  But, you know we will both do fine, let's just get it over with so we can go and have a drink together and see if we can impress some young college studs with the uniforms. I know I always liked a guy in uniform, and I think it should logically follow that guys are attracted to good looking young ladies in uniforms.” Ramirez replies, smiling.

       “You're a bad influence on me, Anita, but I like that in a best friend. After all, I can’t always be an angel.  It gets too boring.” Olson laughs.

30

       Olson and Ramirez arrive at the shooting range, ready to renew their handgun qualification. Range officer Henry Tillmon takes their paperwork, sets up paper targets for them and instructs them.

       “Olson, up and ready.  This will be a failure drill, on the count of three, two shots to the body, one to the head.  Failure drill, on three.”

       Olson steps up to the line.

       Tillmon’s voice drones, “One...  Two..  Three!”

       Olson quickly squeezed off three rounds from her Glock 9mm pistol, striking the paper target twice in the chest area and once between the eyes.

       “Nice shooting, Officer Olson.” Tillmon says, genuinely pleased.

       “Thanks!” Olson replies, smiling.

       “OK, Officer Ramirez, you're up next.  Same thing.” Tillmon says, changing clipboards.

       Detective Ramirez steps up to the line, readies her weapon and awaits the countdown.

       Once again, Tillmon counts, “One...  Two..  Three!”

       Ramirez squeezes off three shots, hitting the target in the left shoulder once and the other two hitting the paper along the white border, away from the outline of the body.

       “Officer Ramirez, I cannot give you a passing grade on this part of the test.  You have one more chance, and that is the point shoot.  You go first this time.  Ten shots to center mass.  You ordinarily need to score a minimum of seventy-five points to remain qualified, but in light of your failure on the precious drill, you'll need ninety.”  Tillmon says, concerned.

       Ramirez racks the slide on her automatic nervously, ejecting a live round and waits for the target to turn around.

       The target spins into position and Ramirez fires ten deliberate rounds, without pause, and presses the button to bring the target to her.

       Ramirez, Olson and Tillmon huddle around to count the points.  She has scored three flyers, or misses, four middle ring shorts, with five points each, and three outer ring shots, worth one point each.  Her total score is twenty-three points, far below what she needs to qualify. 

       “I don't know what's wrong, Tillmon.  I am a better shot than that!  Look at my record!  I was second in my class at the academy, right behind Anita, here.”  Ramirez states, obviously upset with her failure.

       “I don't know, kid.  But since your deadline for qualifying isn't until March third, you have a chance to try again.  I suggest you get as much practice as you can between now and then.  Let's just pretend today you were unable to take your test due to equipment failure.  I'm only doin' this ‘cuz I like ya, kid.” Tillmon says, tearing up Ramirez's result form.

       “OK.  I'll practice non-stop if I have to. Thanks.” Ramirez replies, hugging Tillmon.

       “Hey, this stays between the three of us, ya know.” Tillmon says, worriedly.

       “Of course.”  Ramirez and Olson say simultaneously.

       Tillmon, relieved, says, “OK, Olson, You're up.”

       As the target spins into position, Olson is already firing.  In a span of less than five seconds, she has fired ten rounds.  As the target returns, they can all see clearly that, as expected, all ten hit dead center, scoring a perfect one hundred points.

       Ramirez looks at Olson with a slight grin, “Hey, coach, how about a few pointers?”

       “OK, but not tonight, we still got those college guys to locate.”  Olson states.

       “Nah, Anita, not now.  I need to practice at the public shooting range until I know what I'm doing wrong.”  Ramirez states, depressed.

       “Let's talk about this on the way to my place, so I can change.  I have some ideas, besides, I just need a drink, not a date.  One beer, then I'll drop you off at your place, OK?”  Olson states, heading towards the parking lot.

       “OK.  Bye, Tillmon, see ya next week.” Ramirez says, waving.

       “Bye, Detective Ramirez.”  Tillmon replies, shaking his head.  He thinks to himself, “I hope she passes next time.  It would be a travesty to lose such a fine, capable officer to something like a failed handgun qualification.  After all, it is rare that a homicide detective has to even draw a weapon.  They investigate after the fact, for crying out loud.  But, that new Mayor, in her infinite wisdom has decreed that all officers must qualify with handguns or be moved to permanent desk duty, ”

31

       On the way to Olson's Ocean Beach apartment, she and Ramirez are chatting amicably about everything but their shooting test.

       Olson addresses her partner, with a tinge of concern in her voice, “The Lieutenant still hasn't started dressing as snazzy as usual, Alice, and hasn't shaved in  days.  If he was married, I'd think he was having trouble there, but he's not.  I wonder what it can be?”

       “Maybe he's burned out.  I don't want to try to get into his head, Anita.  Let's change the subject.”  Ramirez states.

       “OK, Alice, humor me for a second, see that street sign over there, what does it say?”  Olson asks, in a moment of inspiration as to a possible root of Ramirez’s problems at the range.

       “Uh..  Guthrie?” Ramirez replies, squinting out the window.

       “Just what I thought!  That's Goldfinch, Alice.  How long have you had trouble with your eyes?”  Olson asks, with a sense of astonishment creeping into her voice.

       “I don't need glasses, Anita.  I'm young, only old ladies need glasses.  I can see just fine.”  Ramirez replies, defensively.

       “Be honest, could you see the targets clearly?” Olson asks.

       “Well, no, but that's because of the pollution.  Stupid range is next to the freeway, what do they expect?  Besides, this dry air really plays tricks on me.”  Ramirez replies, still defensive.

       “Alice, you're coming with me to the eye doctor, right now, to have those peepers checked, and no arguments.  They take walk-ins at Wal-Mart, besides, I'm out of shampoo.”  Olson says, leaving no room for argument in her voice.

       “OK, but you're wasting your time, I see fine.”  Ramirez replies, with a hint of resignation in her voice. 

32

       An hour later, Ramirez isn't quite so sure as she sits across from the optometrist.

       “Twenty-Sixty in the left eye, Twenty-Eighty in the right. You can definitely benefit from glasses, since the Police Department prohibits contacts.  Go next door and pick out a frame.  You have excellent coverage, so any frame you want is covered.  If you hurry, you might even be able to get your glasses tonight before we close.  We do have one of the few in-store labs remaining, and do show having both lenses in stock.”

       “Thank you, doctor, “ Ramirez states, as she sticks her tongue out at the smiling Olson.

33

       Wednesday morning, while sitting at his desk reviewing the Benson case file, as that is the only open case at the moment, Firmii realizes with a hint of satisfaction that the locations of the stab wounds on Benson are exactly where the wounds were on his victim, Newborn.  He brings this immediately to Harmon's attention.  Harmon calls a meeting of the squad to praise Firmii.

       “As you know, Detective Garrison is down with the flu.  He's probably out until Monday.  Defective Firmii has brought to my attention that Benson was stabbed precisely where he stabbed Newborn.  We know that information wasn't in the newspaper.  It's only in our records here and in the court transcripts.  I think we need to look at the trial.  Who tried the case?  What judge?  What DA?  Who were the jurors?  Who was dismissed during the Jury questioning?  One of them may be our vigilante.  We need to interview the Judge, DA, jurors and Bailiffs.   Start these interviews on Monday.  Make calls today to arrange these interviews.  I don't care if you work individually or as pairs.  Just get it done.”

       The detectives immediately to go their desks to make the necessary phone calls.  They feel a sudden surge of adrenaline, which is common at the start of a new case.  How long this adrenaline rush will last is anybody’s guess.

34

       The Vindicator walks slowly past the house, seeing no one home, and the car at the curb.  He glanced around quickly.  He pulls the thin strip of metal from its hiding place down his pant leg and uses it to open the door.  He then uses a screwdriver to pop the ignition and drives off.

       Dominguez struts down the street toward his house, his girlfriend, upset because they are walking and not driving, marching angrily a few feet behind him.  Dominguez is swigging beer from a brown paper bag.  He has no worries.  The cops can't touch him.

       Dominguez hears the car before he sees it.   He recognizes the thunderous exhaust and the slight squeal coming from the brakes.  He recognized it as his own car.  “What the...”

       The Vindicator aims the Uzi out the open passenger window and lets loose with a stream of nine-millimeter manglers.  He smiles as he sees Dominguez's head explode in a mist of red, like an overly ripe watermelon.  He barely hears the wailing screams of Dominguez’s girlfriend as he accelerates and turns sharply at the next corner.  A block away, he stashes the car and doubles back on foot to his own vehicle, still in the recreation center parking lot, where he left it.

       He glides smoothly into traffic and heads toward home and a night of television and relaxation.

35

       The story in this morning's San Garcia Dispatch barely merits notice to most, but since he is looking for it, sensing it will be there, he finds it easily.

Juan Dominguez, 19, was killed yesterday in a drive by shooting.  Dominguez's girlfriend, who wishes not to disclose her name, says the shooter was driving Dominguez's own car.  His car was recovered three blocks from his home two hours later.  There was no description obtained of the shooter and there is no motive at this time.  According to police, the investigation of the crime scene revealed no usable evidence, other than the caliber and probable make of the weapon used.  Further information will be provided as it becomes available.

       The Vindicator smiles as he sets down the paper and heads out the door to work.  Smiling, he turns around and heads back into his living room, deciding to give himself a few more minutes.

       “Two down, and many more to go.” he thinks,  “They need some way to know this is the work of one man.  A man that is strong enough in his beliefs to provide justice in an unjust world.”   He goes to his computer and composes a quick letter to the editor of the San Garcia Dispatch.

This is the Vindicator speaking.  I did what the courts and pigs failed to do correctly.  I was not under the same constraints as they are.  I was under only those constraints I chose to place on myself.  I made Benson and Dominguez pay for their crimes.  The pigs will never catch me.  I am invincible.  Benson and Dominguez were the first, but many more will come.  

36

       Friday morning, after roll call, Harmon summons his detectives to the briefing room.  His mood is somber as he addresses the gathering, “I just got off the phone with Mayor Hilton and she agrees.  Especially in light of the letter in this morning's paper, which I assume you've all read, it appears this may be the work of a serial killer.  A vigilante, if you will.  She and I both doubt that Dominguez was a random target.  We further doubt that the letter was a hoax or prank.  She and I both agree that, if nothing new turns up by next Friday, or if a new case comes in before then that we can link to this guy, or group, or whatever, we should call in the FBI and see if they can assign someone from their behavioral sciences unit to assist us.  That's all, people.  Be prepared to cooperate fully with the feebies if they are called in.  No jurisdictional nonsense.  That's an order.  Now, back to work.  I know there are no new leads, yet, but read over those case files and make absolutely certain you haven't missed a thing.  Also, make sure they are very well organized and that every I is dotted, every T crossed. Pretend it’s an audit, if that helps.  Dismissed.”  Harmon states, returning to his office.  

       The detectives file out of the briefing room and return to the homicide division, in a dark mood.  If this case goes federal, they fear, it may draw more attention than they want.  But, whatever happens, they know the main thing is to stop this guy before he kills again.   Reviewing their notes reveals nothing on the Benson case.  With nothing more to go on here, they divert their attention to the Dominguez case.

        The only witness was Dominguez's girlfriend, Consuela Garcia, who is in the country illegally.  She cannot provide a description of the driver, only of the car.  The car was Dominguez's own car, so that provides no leads.   With nothing more to go on in this case, without the cooperation of Garcia or members of Los Coyotes or rival gangs, this case, reasons Firmii, will likely not be the one to break the big case, the case of the vigilante the squad has taken to calling “the copycat killer” even though he refers to himself as the Vindicator.  

       Frustrated that nothing has developed from a lengthy day of reviewing files and phone logs, the detectives retire to Monella's for a pizza and talk about anything but work.

37

       Saturday afternoon, around four o'clock, Officers Greene and Reardon are on patrol along the busy San Garcia Freeway.  A blue sports car passes them at a high rate of speed and weaves precariously in and out of the lanes.

       They put on their lights and siren as Greene calls the pursuit in on the radio, “Unit two fifty seven in pursuit of a blue Lamborghini Diablo, North bound on the SGF at Via Del Modena.  Speed clocked at ninety-seven MPH.  Operator is driving recklessly.  License plate Boy Charlie Edward five niner seven.”  

       “Dispatch to two five seven.  Plate comes back to a ninety-five Pontiac Fiero.  Be advised, may be a stolen plate or a kit car.  Car registered to Gustavo Medina.  Owner has outstanding warrants for failure to appear on minor in possession and possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute.  Proceed with caution.”  

       “Ten-four dispatch.” Greene says, into the microphone.   As the blue sports car approaches the next exit, the driver notices the sign warning of road construction ahead a fraction of a second too late, after he has already taken the off ramp.  Knowing the chase is over, he pulls to the side of the road and awaits his fate.  

       Greene and Reardon pull their unit over behind the sports car and exit the car, drawing their weapons as they do so.

        Reardon points his gun at the driver side window and shouts “Driver, exit the vehicle and keep your hands up.”  

       Greene motions to his partner before carefully approaching the vehicle.  He again tells Medina to exit the vehicle and Medina complies.   Upon exiting the vehicle, Medina immediately strikes Greene with his elbow, causing Greene's nose to bleed profusely.  Greene quickly recovers and trips Medina, bringing him to the ground.  As he is cuffing Medina, he has difficulty bringing his right arm forward. 

       Noticing the glint of sunlight off of metal, Reardon quickly shoots Medina, emptying his clip into his back and head.  Approaching the body, he rolls it over, revealing a large hunting knife still clutched in Medina's right hand.

       Greene shouts into the radio’s microphone, “Dispatch, unit two five seven.  Shots fired.  Shots fired.  Suspect down.”

       “Dispatch to two five seven, are you injured?” asks the dispatcher.  

       “Negative, dispatch.  We're fine.” Greene states, sounding out of breath.  

       “OK.  Ambulance and supervisor in route.” the disembodied voice says from the radio.  

       “Ten-four.” Reardon replies to the microphone.  

       Reardon feels fairly confident he will be vindicated, as the suspect was an immediate threat to his partner and he did not have time to react in any other way.

38

       Wednesday morning, only ten minutes after stepping off the bus following a three and a half hour ride, Irene Simpson walks into the New Horizon's Counseling Center.  Approaching the front desk, she introduces herself.

       "Yes, We've been expecting you.  I'm Michelle.  We tried to contact you, but since you don't have a cell phone, we weren't able to."

       "Is there some kind of problem?  Am I going to have to go back to the hospital?"

       "No, no, not at all, Sweetie. In fact, we have good news.  You will not be going to the short term program at all.  An apartment in our long term program just came available.  The person who was living there, who was living under the same conditions you were tested dirty Monday.  She returned to her original placement yesterday.  The apartment is fully furnished.  We'll be sure to get you clean bedding before Steve drives you over.  He'll give you the orientation speech and your keys and everything.  Is that OK with you?"

       "Definitely, it's just a little overwhelming.  I was expecting a bit of a wait, possibly for months, before being able to live on my own.  I look forward to the opportunity and making the most of it.  I will need to make arrangements for funding to pay the rent, and try to get money for food, and all my other daily needs, but I am sure I can do it."

       "Well, the program takes care of rent until you get everything in place, and Steve will be your case manger here, and will help you apply for food stamps and general relief.  We have a well stocked pantry here, as well, and you are welcome to make use of it until something comes in.  In fact, let me look in the file here.... Yes!  The program sent a little present ahead for you," Michelle states, handing Irene an envelope.

       Opening the envelope, Irene finds a check for $575.

       "I don't understand..."

       "Well, the note states that when you were placed in the hospital you had a little under $400 in your purse, and they placed it in an escrow account for you.  This is what it came to with interest.  Had you not been discharged, the amount would have gone to your family upon your death."

       "I forgot all about it!  Now I can get some new clothes and stock the apartment with food and other needs.  Before I forget, who do I see about meds?"

       "We have a doctor here who will take care of that.  I see they gave you a month's supply before you left.  I can make an appointment for you for Friday so you can meat Dr. Chavez.  You'll love her, she's a great lady."

       "Thank you so much!"

       "You're welcome, Sweetie.  Ah, here comes Steve now."

39

       Reardon, who has been on leave since the incident with Medina gets a call to come into the chief's office.  He walks in nervously, not knowing what to expect.

       "You asked to see me sir?"

       "Yes.  I just wanted to show you a press release that will run tomorrow morning, at which time I expect you back in uniform and on the streets, if you have any questions, call my secretary.  She'll know where to reach me.  Sorry to be so quick, but I have a last-minute meeting with the Mayor.  I wish she would offer me the courtesy of a little warning ahead of time," Oldham states, handing him a sheet of paper.

       Exiting the office, Reardon breaks out in a wide grin as he reads :

The police officer who shot and killed a knife-wielding man during a violent struggle with a fellow officer has been cleared of criminal misconduct, the District Attorney's office said Tuesday.

Gustavo Medina, a resident of San Ramon who was armed with a large hunting knife, died at the scene.  What started as a routine traffic stop for speeding ended when Medina reached for the knife during a struggle.  Further investigation shows that Medina had a large amount of cocaine in a hidden compartment in his vehicle.

"Mr. Medina posed a clear and imminent danger to Officer Reardon's partner," District Attorney Daniel Drough said in a two-page letter summarizing the findings of his office's investigation.

"It is readily apparent that he took premeditated steps to avoid arrest, and my his actions, provoked officer Reardon into a situation where he had no choice but the use of deadly force," he said.

His letter was addressed to Mayor Victoria Hiatt, and a copy of it was forwarded to Police Chief, Kenneth Oldham.

40

       Wednesday night, As Harmon is driving toward home through a haze of light, but persistent, rain, he hears the call on the radio, “Robbery in progress.  Frank's Market.  Five hundred block of Reseda.  Respond silent, armed suspects inside.  Suspects described by the manager as Hispanic teenagers.  Manager is on the line with us now.  He's hiding in his office.” 

       Harmon, who is just around the block from the store in question, quickly turns the corner, pulling into the parking lot just as a young Hispanic male wearing faded jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt runs from the store, his hands in his pockets.  

       “Stop, or I'll shoot!” Harmon yells, springing from his car, .45 caliber automatic in hand.   The boy spins, his hands still in his pockets, as Harmon opens fire.  The three rounds fired from Harmon's pistol remove most of the young man's face.

       Harmon is stooping over the body examining it for weapons when four marked cars pull into the lot.   As the first car screeches to a halt, the voice on the radio says, “Suspects fled out the back door, headed south bound through the canyon.  Air support in route.”  

       Just as Harmon hears this message, the manager, Ruben Romero, sprints from the store. “Oh No!  Gabriel!  What happened?”  

       “I'm Lieutenant Harmon, SGPD.  I just happened to be in the area.  Who is this young man?” Harmon asks, showing the manager his badge.  

       “Gabriel Martinez.  He is, or was, my box boy.  He was running to get help when the robbers started toward the back door.” the manager states. 

       “I thought he was one of the robbers.” Harmon states, visibly shaken.  

       “Have a seat in your car, LT.  Let me call the PC for you.  He needs to get this all straightened out.”  Officer Steven Karan states, guiding Harmon towards his car. 

       Harmon, hanging his head, looks almost catatonic.  He repeats, barely audibly, “I thought he was the robber.” 

       Harmon reluctantly sinks into the seat of his car, and sits banging his head lightly against the steering wheel, muttering under his breath, “This isn’t right.. he was innocent.”

41

       The Police Chief, Kenneth Oldham, arrives at the scene and, upon hearing the details from Harmon, tells him “Justus, you know I hate to do this, but there's a lot of tension right now, especially a lot of racial tension.  I'm gonna hafta put you on administrative leave, so there is no hint of a cover-up, until we can get this thing worked out.  I suggest a long vacation.  I was going to force you to take six months pretty soon anyway, you've never used any of your vacation time, and it's building toward the maximum we can give ya.  That's my ruling, six months off, with pay, of course, just let us know how to get in touch with ya if ya decide to leave town.  I'm gonna put Garrison in charge until your return.  No arguments, or I'll hafta let you go completely.  By October, we should be able to clear this up, give the family some kinda satisfaction.  We just need to let people know we aren't taking it lightly.”  

       Harmon reluctantly agrees to take the time off and asks the PC to alert the detectives, since he isn't in the mood to do so himself.      

42

       The story in the San Garcia Dispatch catches Thee Vindicator's eye as he finishes his coffee.

Douglas Renfield is to be released tomorrow after completing his sentence.  Renfield, as some readers may recall, killed four people in separate incidents during the late sixties by dowsing them with kerosene and then igniting it, which he claimed at trial, was to release the demons that were possessing the victims. 

Renfield, while incarcerated, completed a college degree in computer science.  He says he has plans to start his own computer-consulting firm and to move out of San Garcia when he makes enough money to do so. 

Renfield, who was sentenced to twenty-five years, would today be eligible for life imprisonment without the possibility of parole, but at sentencing, was given the maximum term allowed at that time. 

Renfield, you will recall was nineteen at the time of his arrest.  Psychological testing while incarcerated indicated a schizophrenic thought process in Renfield. 

In a public statement given five years ago, Renfield stated that medications had tremendously assisted him by suppressing his symptoms. 

Renfield, at that time, expressed a great deal of regret and remorse for his prior behavior, asking that the families of the victims, and the public in general, forgive him.

         He tosses the paper aside with disgust.  He remembers this case from relatively early in his career.  As he thinks about the case he hears the voice of the only father he ever knew tell him, “Boy, this man should pay.  Justice must be served.  Do your duty.  Fulfill your destiny.  It is the only way.  You know all that talk about voices is just an elaborate ruse.  He is just trying to get off.  You can’t let it work.”  

       He knows the voice must be from heaven, as its owner has been dead for over ten years.  He knows that this gives the mission even more importance, as God himself must be directing it. 

       He vows to extract justice from Renfield.  In fact, he vows to do so Thursday, which will be twenty-six years to the day of Renfield's last killing.  He sees the poetic justice in this.  He has much planning to do between now and then.  He vows to start that evening, after work, compiling what he will need.  

43

       Thursday morning, Garrison, who is reluctantly filling the role of temporary watch commander, due to Harmon's extended leave, is sitting in Harmon's office.  He is reviewing the details of the case connected to the Vindicator.  He quickly comes to the realization that both cases were prosecuted by District Attorney Daniel Drough and tried by Justice William Hart, decides to personally conduct the interviews with both men.  He arranges an appointment with Hart at 12:30 this afternoon, and with Drough at 3:30.  He notices that the bailiff on Benson's case was Richard Dalton and in Dominguez's case, the Bailiff was Franklin Sanchez.  He assigns Olson and Ramirez to interview Dalton and Firmii and Bernard to conduct the interview of Sanchez.

       He addresses the detectives now under his command, “Both interviews are setup for 1:30 this afternoon.  Be thorough.  We need to solve these cases before this guy strikes again.”  

       The detectives group together and offer each other their best wishes as they embark on the dauntless task of conducting thorough interviews with suspects that may be less cooperative than most others, and suspects that hey may have to work with again in the future.

       That afternoon, as his watch shows 12:25, Detective Garrison enters the chambers of the Honorable William Hart.  He does so with a degree of trepidation, as he knows he and Hart will have numerous occasions to work together again in the future.  He takes a deep breath and starts what may be the most difficult interview of his life, “Your honor, as you may be aware, two cases that you presided over have recently resulted in the murder of the defendants in those cases.  This is a cause of some concern to us, especially since certain details of the crimes committed by these suspects were not made available to the public, yet were replicated in the murders of the suspects themselves.  Do you have any knowledge whatsoever in this regard?”  

       “Boy, first of all, let me tell you I have no sympathy for those punks.  Furthermore, I don't like you coming in here and accusin' me of murder....”  

       “I am not accusing you of anything, your honor, I am merely doing my job as assigned.  I would really like to keep this cordial and finish my list of questions, if I may..”  

       “Go ahead, but remember who I am...”  

       Garrison slumps in his chair and continues the lengthy interview process. 

       About an hour later, Olson, Ramirez, Bernard, and Firmii all enter the courthouse together.  Olson and Ramirez proceed to the cafeteria, where Richard Dalton awaits them, while Firmii and Bernard go to the Bailiff's lounge, to speak with Sanchez.  These meeting locations were arranged prior to their departure from the police station.  The officers look upon the interviews with some trepidation and regret, as there are, in a way, fellow members in the law enforcement fraternity.

       Dalton rises to greet Olson and Ramirez as they enter the cafeteria.  He extends his hand, and shakes each of theirs in turn.  The detectives suggest they move to a quiet corner so they can conduct the interview without interruption.

       Dalton agrees and the trio finds a spot far removed from anyone else in the cafeteria.  Their interview is relatively brief, since Dalton has an airtight alibi for both nights in question.  Dalton was leading meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous on both occasions.  He regrets that he is unable to offer the names of any witnesses, since the nature of the meetings provides anonymity to those present.  However, he offers to call several witnesses without revealing their identity, simply asking each the question “Can you please tell these people where we were and what we were doing on…” providing one of the two dates.  Ramirez fields these calls, as Olson scratches notes in her notebook.

       Thanking him for his time, Olson and Ramirez rise from the table and head out of the cafeteria to the main hall of the courthouse. 

       Meanwhile, as they enter the Bailiff's lounge, Firmii and Bernard are surprised to find not only Sanchez, but three other bailiffs as well, taking a break from their daily activities.  They suggest that they move the interview to a more private location, but Sanchez insists that they conduct the interview there, as he has nothing to hide. 

       Reluctantly, Firmii and Bernard agree, and start asking the first of their many questions. 

       Garrison steels himself his 3:30 meeting with District Attorney Daniel Drough.  As he enters Drough's office, he is taken aback at the friendliness extended toward him. 

       “This interview may not be as bad as I was fearing,” he thinks to himself.  He sits in the soft leather chair offered and begins his final interview of the day.

44

       As Renfield steps off of the Greyhound bus that has brought him back to San Garcia from the central California prison in which he was incarcerated, he takes a deep breath of fresh air.  He smiles inwardly, knowing that the past is behind him and now that he is clean and sober, as well as being on an almost magical cocktail of psychotropic medications, he can move on with his life and make something of himself.

       His conversion was a remarkable one, brought about mostly by being free of chemicals for the first time in his life for more than a month at a time and being on medications to slow down the racing thoughts in his mind and quiet the voices that have plagued him since he was sixteen.  His first goal, once he makes enough money, is to send a large, anonymous gift to the family of each of his victims.

       He realizes this can in no way make up for the endless pain and suffering he caused them, but he figures it can at least put his mind at ease a little bit.

       Renfield walks down the sidewalk, marveling at how things have changed in the past quarter of a century.  He checks his pocket, making sure he still has the fifty dollars he was given upon release.  He walks into the fast food restaurant on the corner, orders two hamburgers, a large order of fries and a large coke.  He also gets change so he can buy a newspaper.  As he waits for his order, he quickly steps outside, buys a paper from the machine, and finds a table inside.

        “Number twenty-five, your order is ready!” booms the voice from the PA.  

       Renfield picks up his first meal as a free man since he was a teenager, and nibbles on some fries as he opens the newspaper to the classified advertisements.   He knows he will need to find a place to stay, but also knows he needs some money first.  He decides to get some funding first, prior to looking at the ads. 

       He quickly finishes his meal, and asks a fellow customer where the Social Services offices are located.  He is given an address, and quickly leaves the restaurant and walks toward the brown building three blocks away. 

       Renfield has little hope of finding anything today, he realizes, since he has no appointment, but once he explains his predicament to the secretary, she confides in him that Mr. Johnston is free at the moment, as his appointment canceled, and she'll see what she can do.  

       Ten minutes later, Renfield is seated across from Johnston, explaining his case.  Johnston sighs, hands Renfield a large bundle of papers and tells him to complete the forms and he will do everything in his power to get expedited General Relief funding for Renfield.  He also states that he will make sure he sets up rent in a Single Room Occupancy hotel room and food stamps to get him through the week.  Beyond that, he offers no guarantees.

       Renfield thanks Johnston profusely, and fills out the papers.  He hands them in at the desk, and is told to call back in a week to check on his status.  He is also told that he is being granted only six months of aid, and that is the only reason he is being given the chance to obtain funding so quickly. 

    He is informed that after this initial six-month period, if he hasn't found employment, he will be on his own and ineligible for further funds unless he has been found to be unable to work for physical or psychiatric reasons by a medical professional who has provided significant treatment.  He is provided a list of general practice physicians and psychiatrists.  The last words he hears on his way out the door are, “Good luck, Mr. Renfield.  I think you’ll probably need it.  A lot of people remember who you are and what you did, and are probably not going to be willing to forgive you.  If it counts for anything, I forgive you and think you are indeed a new person.”

       Renfield leaves the office building smiling, with the rental voucher in his pocket.  He whistles as he walks to the library to review the paper and make some calls.

       Renfield strikes gold on his third call.  The owner of “La Paloma Estates” is himself an ex-con who knows what it's like to need a break.  He has a room within Renfield's budget, and they quickly make a verbal agreement over the phone.  As soon as Renfield hangs up, he heads quickly across the street to the Transit Store. There he buys a bus pass, and exits, just as the bus he needs arrives.

       Renfield exits the bus directly in front of “La Paloma Estates” and walks quickly to the office, there, Donald Marinello hugs him warmly, hands him a set of keys, and takes him to his new home.  “We can worry about paperwork later.”

       As soon as Marinello leaves, Renfield picks up the phone to call the prison and tell them where he is staying, since that was a condition of his release, the last line on the extensive paperwork that needed to be completed to make his freedom official.  The call completed, Renfield sinks into the bed, and quickly falls into a deep slumber.  

       Meanwhile, the Vindicator goes one stop beyond Renfield's to make certain he isn't spotted, then satisfied that he knows where Renfield will be living for the time being, he takes the bus back down town to retrieve his car and head home.

45

       Friday night, Harmon pulls his car into the parking lot of the crisis house where he volunteers on weekends.  He has done this since college, and finds it rewarding in many ways.

       "Hi, Joe.  What's up?  Any new cases?"

       "Hey there, Justus.  We have three new cases in house, and one new person in outr long-term apartments.  The files are in the usual places.  The long-term apartment case is a real unique one.  She is from Sacramento, with her rent being paid by CONREP until she can make it on her own.

       "What was the original charge?"

       "Well, I think these news clippings should tell you all you need to know.  She is on a good combination of meds now, though, and symptom free."

       Harmon takes the paper from Joe's outstreched hand and reads the two short articles.

Self-described “Angel of Mercy” Irene Simpson stated during her testimony that she heard voices teling her that she knew better than the doctors how to ease the suffering of the patients she attended.  It is alleged the 29-year-old registered nurse ended the suffering of at least five patients under her care at the Harbor View Hospital by deliberately giving them morphine injections.

Simpson went on trial Superior Court yesterday on five counts of second-degree murder for acts alleged to have taken place over the past three years.

“The evidence will clearly show that she murdered five individuals,” said Assistant District Attorney Roberta Calderon.

Simpson’s lawyer Andrew Middleton, countered by arguing that the patients were terminal, and that they their deaths were imminent.  He also stated that it is clear that she was suffering from psychosis at the time, and therefore, cannot be held responsible for her actions.  A court evaluation has been ordered.

       Harmon's face is strangely unemotional as he reads the finishes the first clipping and reads the second.

Forensic Psychologist Jerry Jacoby stated yesterday that his evaluations of "Angel of Mercy" Irene Simpson demonstrate evidence of schizophrenia. 

He urged the court to consider alternative placement rather than prison.  The judge presiding over the case, Kelvin MacNamara agreed, sentencing her to an indefinite term in an undisclosed mental health facility, stating that she would be placed there until she "no longer demonstrated a public threat or a threat to herself."

He also permanently revoked her nurses license and ordered that, should she be released, she not work in any capacity with dependent adults.

       "Very interesting.  I'll be sure to check on her when I go over there tomorrow.  I am on call this weekend, and would like to introduce myself to her."

       "Sounds good.  Well, time for group.  My turn tonight.  relax and watch the phones.  See you in an hour."

       "What are you doing for group tonight?"

       "Tonight I think I'll do the STOP technique for negative thoughts."

       "A real classic....."

       "Thanks.. see you in an hour."

46

       The Vindicator pulls up to the curb in front of the dark apartment buildings a little after 3:00 AM.  He checks his fanny pack to make sure he has everything he needs.  He sees the syringe, the morphine he had left over from when his father died at home under hospice care, and the small can of oil.

       He quietly walks to the gate and oild the hinges to prevent any telltale squeaking.  Satisfied that the gate will be silent, he unlocks it and slips inside.  The key is one of many he has from various jobs he has held over the years.  Any job he has ever held where keys were issues, he cut copies for himself using equipment and blanks he purchased from a retired locksmith as a teen.

       He slowly and quietly walks up the stairs and goes to apartment number seven, pauses to listen closely and satisfied that the resident is asleep, uses the master key for the apartments and opens the door.

       He loads the syringe in the living room with a massive overdose or morphine and, removing his shoes, walks slowly and quietly to the bed room.

       He sees Irene Simpson lying quietly in the bed, sleeping deeply.  He knows this is likely due to the medications she is on  and believes that he is under no threat of her waking before he can finish.  He walks up to her and slips the needle into her flesh, just behind her left ear.  He pushes the plunger, sending the drug coursing into her veins, knowing she will be dead within minutes.

       He places the syringe back into the fanny pack, zips it back up, and walks back to the living room.  Putting his shoes back on and quietly leaves the apartment.  Quietly leaving the apartment, making sure to lock the door, he descends the stairs.

       He quietly opens the gate, walks back to his car and drives away.

47

       Saturday afternoon, Harmon drives to the apartments.  He parks his car and walks toward the gate.  Just as he is approaching the gate, it opens and a tall, thin man walks out.

       "Hey man, long time no see.  How are ya?"

       "Pretty good, James.  I'm on call this weekend and just wanted to meet the new resident and check in on everyone. So, what are your plans today?"

       "I got a new part time job.  I work from 6:15 to 2:45.  Believe it or not,  I work as a dispatcher for a cab company."

       "That's great.  See you later.  I'm going to go introduce myself to Irene."

       Harmon enters the complex and climbs the stairs.  Going to Simpson's door, he knocks.  Getting no reply, he uses hsi key to open the door.  Entering the apartment, he detects a foul odor from the direction of the bedroom.

       He enters the bedroom, and sees Simpson lying on the bed, and from her color, he knows she is dead.  He pulls the cell phone from his belt and calls the coroner, describing what he has found, and then calls in to Joe at the crisis center. 

       He knows there will be a lot of paperwork over this, and he knows he also has to go door to door alerting the other residents about what has happened and what to expect, and thinks an impromptu group therapy session might be in order.

       He is glad that he has a BA in Psychology, along with his police academy training, and has always used this in any job he has held.  Now it will be put to the test in a way he did not expect.

48

       Monday morning, Garrison addresses the squad “OK, people, unless we get anything new today that interrupts us,  I want us, as a team, to review the interviews.  We've had a weekend to clear our minds, so we can be  a bit more objective.  Go by your notes only, not memories.  Let’s get it under way.  Let's start with your report, Anita and Alice.”

       “OK, let me see.  Alice and I interviewed Dalton as requested.  Not much to report.  Family man, not particularly religious.  He has an airtight alibi for each night in question.  He was leading AA meetings.  I spoke with others who had attended, and they vouched for him without prompting other than to tell where he was on the date in question.” Olson states, reading from her notebook.  

       “OK, I guess we can scratch Dalton off our list then,” Garrison says, “Dan, Ryan, what about Sanchez?”  

       “Not much there, either.  Lives with his ill mother.  Takes care of her when the nurse isn't there.  Doesn't have an alibi, but no real motive, either.  He feels that Benson served his time, and that someone dropped the ball on Dominguez's case, but that Dominguez shouldn't pay for that.  He says he felt sorry that they lost their lives, and I believe him,” answers Firmii.  

       “I agree totally, except I was bugged by the fact that he didn't want to talk to us in private. Almost like he wanted witnesses in case something came up later.” states Bernard.  

       Garrison sighs, “OK.  Scratch Sanchez.  That leaves my interviews.  Drough is a no-brainer.  He was in meetings all night on the third, and the Mayor was there with him.  That's about as airtight an alibi as any of us can ever hope for.  Now, Judge Hart on the other hand… He was less than sympathetic about the deaths of Benson and Dominguez.  He was also somewhat hostile to being questioned.  This next part is just between us.  I think he should be our number one suspect, unofficially and totally off the record, until proven otherwise.  There was just something in his voice and manner.  Some intangible that I can’t but my finger on.”

49

       Meanwhile, the Vindicator recalls his close call a few days before.  He replays the encounter in his mind like a movie.  In his vision, he falls into step behind Renfield as soon as he steps off the bus.  He keeps his distance, but always keeps Renfield in sight.   He thinks he may has been discovered when Renfield addresses him in the burger joint, but is relieved that it's just a simple question about the DSS offices. 

       “Sure, just go three blocks West, can't miss it.”

       “Soon,” he says to himself, “very soon.”

50

       Garrison addresses the team, laying out the details of a case that just came in “The body of an unidentified male, approximately thirty five years of age, was found dead of a single .38 caliber GSW to the head.  The body was found behind Ocean Front Market.  I want all four of you over there, for crowd control as well as interviews.  There is no indication, at this time, that this case falls into the pattern of the vigilante.  It appears to be unrelated, however, do not, I repeat, do NOT, rule anything out.  You never know when digging in the dirt will strike oil, or better yet, gold.  Now, get over there and make me proud of you!” 

51

       The store owner, who found the body when putting some boxes in the dumpster, is waiting for the detectives in the alley.

        “I don't know who he is, and I didn't touch a thing.  I really don't have anything to tell you.  I wish I did.”  

       “Thank you, please go with Detective Firmii so he can get your statement.” Olson states, as the bends over the body.  

       Olson starts by looking into the victim's pockets.  From there, she extracts a flat brown wallet, in which she finds an ID stating his name as “Vladimir Pavlovich.”   She notices a glint a few feet from the victim and asks Ramirez to check it out.

        “You'd better come over here, Anita.  Looks like we have the weapon.” Ramirez states.  

       As Ramirez is retrieving the nickel-plated revolver from under the dumpster, Olson notices the corner of a piece of paper projecting from the man's left rear pocket.

       The note she extracts tells the grim story:

Nadia, my love, ever since you left me, I have had nothing to live for.  You have left me with no choice but to take my own life.  I hope the money I have left is enough to buy you happiness.  Fair well, my love, and have a happy life with Ivan.  – V

       “If he killed himself, as we are supposed to believe from the note, why is the gun so far away?” Firmii asks.  

       “Let's process his hands for powder residue, all the same,” Bernard insists.   As Olson runs the swab over Pavlovich's hands, the results are apparent. 

       “Positive, Dan.  He did fire a gun recently.  Is it possible someone kicked the gun by accident?”

       “Seems a little too convenient for me, Anita.” Firmii states.   Just then, a teen-aged male wearing torn jeans and a Sex Pistols T shirt starts around the corner, sees the detectives and bolts. 

       Bernard catches up to him quickly, as he breathlessly says, “Man, I didn't kill him!  I was just stealing his piece, honest.  I stashed it under the dumpster when I heard the old man open the door.  I took off as soon as he went inside.  I didn't think you would get here so fast, so I decided to snag the gun, sell it and get some fast money.”  

       “Come with me, and if your story holds up, today may be your lucky day.  You might get to walk away.”  Bernard states.  

       Powder residue tests, conducted back at the scene, are negative and the youth is released with a stern warning not to touch any type of firearm again, or serious trouble may result.  

       “Well, I guess it is a suicide, after all.” Olson states, as the detectives wait for the medical examiner to arrive to claim the body.  

       “Only conclusion we can draw from the facts, at least.” Firmii agrees, as the others just nod.

52

       The detectives work on the Benson and Dominguez cases feverishly, cross-referencing known acquaintances, witnesses, employment histories, school histories, and religious activities, all to no avail. 

       The only link between the two victims remains the fact that they had the same judge and the same DA on their respective cases.  Exhausted by this effort, the detectives are overjoyed when the lunch hour rolls around.  They are even more overjoyed when Garrison offers to spring for Pizza for the squad.  

       Olson places the call to Monella's for two large pizzas, one a pepperoni, the other a pesto and chicken, a dozen bread sticks and two two-liter bottles of Coke.  When the food arrives twenty-five minutes later, the detectives will be able to, for a while at least, forget about the cases that are haunting their working hours. 

53

       Meanwhile, the Vindicator drives his sleek black sedan to the “La Paloma Estates” and keeps an eye on Renfield's room.   About ten minutes after the Vindicator's arrival, Renfield leaves his apartment, walking East toward the corner liquor store.

       The Vindicator slowly slips behind him and sticks the .38 caliber revolver in his back and quietly tells him “Please make this easy and come with me.  I'd really hate to make a scene here and spill your guts all over this nice sidewalk.”  

       Renfield, realizing he has no true option, and praying that this will be a simple robbery, relents and accompanies the Vindicator back to his car, where he opens the trunk.  

       The Vindicator points to the open trunk and tells Renfield “Climb in, before the green clouds come.”

       Renfield has no idea what the green clouds are, but complies and climbs in the trunk.   The Vindicator quickly blindfolds Renfield with gauze and surgical tape.  He then duct tapes Renfield's hands behind his back, binds his feet together with duct tape, then finally binds the hands to the feet.  

       As the trunk closes, Renfield can smell the kerosene, and he knows what's in store for him.  He reflects that maybe it is all for the best, that in this way, maybe he can atone for his crimes and make up for his sins in God's eyes, even if it is through the work of a crazy man, a man far crazier than himself now, and who better to judge, after all, as he himself is mentally ill.  

       The Vindicator drives Renfield to a remote area of the expansive Montague Park and pulls off into the trees. He pulls Renfield from the trunk, and dumps the bound man on the ground, tells him “The devils shall now be freed from you, and your soul shall know peace, at last.”  

       He takes the five-gallon can of kerosene from the trunk, saturates Renfield's hair and clothing, then strikes a match, tosses it onto the helpless man, and watches as the flames rise.

       Leaving Renfield for dead, the Vindicator drives leisurely towards home.

54

       The sprinklers come on just after the Vindicator leaves the trees.  The water quickly extinguishes the flames, but not before Renfield is burned severely.

        “Someone, help me, please!”  Renfield shouts from the trees, realizing that he may have a chance for survival after all.   A jogger, hearing this plea, goes into the trees, and upon seeing Renfield, quickly dials 911 from the cellular phone in the pack around his waist.  Renfield sighs a thank you to this kind stranger, this Good Samaritan, and waits for the ambulance and the medical attendants riding in it, to come to his assistance and help him recover and make something of himself.

55

       Officers David Konrad and Steven Fields are patrolling the freeway through town when a black Ford Crown Victoria crosses lanes in front of them without signaling. Konrad hits the button and puts on the flashing lights.

       The driver of the sedan quickly signals and pulls over, so the pursuing officers see no need to call in the stop, since no pursuit is imminent.   Approaching the car, Konrad recognizes Judge William Hart.

       As Hart rolls down the window, Konrad approaches the car casually.   “Sorry about that, Officer.  I was distracted when my folder here slipped to the floor.  Just wanted to review a case I decided at the start of my career.  Guy got out, finally.” Hart says.  

       Konrad notices a thick envelope labeled “Renfield, Douglas” sitting on the passenger seat.  

       Konrad addresses Hart, “No harm done, Judge.  I'll just let you go with a verbal warning.  But, if you don't mind, there's a personal question I'd like to ask you.  Been buggin' me for years”  

       Hart looks at Konrad, nods and says, “As long as I have the right not to answer, all depends on how personal.”  

       Konrad, nodding, says, “Of course, Your Honor.  It's just your name.  I mean, from the accounts I've read, your family is from Calcutta, India.  But, Hart isn't a Middle Eastern name.  It's just confusing.”  

       Hart, laughing, says, “That's all it is?  My father changed the family name from Hatari to Hart when they moved here in the early fifties.  Thought it would prevent a few problems.”  

       Konrad, smiling, says, “Thanks, Your Honor, and have a nice evening.”  

       Waving at the departing Judge, Konrad climbs back into his patrol unit to continue his tour of duty for the evening.   He has visions of a steak dinner waiting on the table at home, and this, at least, makes the drudgery of the remainder of the evening patrol duty seem more manageable.

       At the hospital, later that evening, just before slipping into a coma, Renfield makes the statement “a big, Indian looking dude did it.  I guess I got what I deserved.” 

56

       Garrison addresses his detectives, “Not much to go on with the Renfield case.  Identified by his prints, which luckily weren't burned.  About the only part of his body that wasn't.  Anyway, before slipping into a coma, he said it was a large Indian gentleman.  We weren't able to determine if he meant Native American or Middle Eastern.   Keep your eyes and ears open, and hopefully something more will develop.  Other than that, all we can do is wait for Renfield to come out of his coma.  Unfortunately, there were no witnesses and the only thing we know for certain is that kerosene was used as an accelerant.  Lucky for Renfield that those sprinklers came on when they did.  In fact, this case, technically, isn’t even a homicide, so is only ours since it fits the pattern of the other revenge crimes, namely Benson and Dominguez.  If those sprinklers hadn’t come on, it would have been a homicide.  We have to catch this guy, folks.  It is starting to make us look like Keystone Kops.”

57

       Garrison enters his apartment, and sighs deeply.  His girlfriend, Johanna, asks what the problem is.

       “It’s this Vindicator case.  We are getting nowhere, and it really burns me.  This guy is walking around out there and doing as he pleases and there is not a single thing we can do about it.  What good is all of my experience when we can’t get a single decent lead?  It’s as though this guy has some kind of immunity.”

       “Relax, honey, it’ll happen.  You guys haven’t lost one yet.”

       “I know, and that’s what worries me.  We’re all bound to fail from time to time, and I’d hate for it to be on this case.  The odds are catching up with us, I’m afraid.”

       “Well, just relax and forget the case for awhile.  Let’s have a nice dinner and a quiet evening.”

       “I’m not really all that hungry, but a quiet evening does sound nice.  Let’s go for a walk at the park.”

       “Sounds wonderful, Lew.  Let me go change, and we’ll go.  When we get back, I’ll fix a light dinner and we can put your work away for awhile.   I know that I need a nice quiet night after today at the clinic.”

       About an hour later, Garrison and Johanna take a seat by the large man made pond in the middle of the park.  Johanna leans over the water and sprinkles a large amount of fish food into the water.  As soon as the food hits the water, several large colorful fish swim to the surface and begin eating.

       “Those fish see you coming, honey,” Garrison says, smiling.

       “Well, they need a little treat now and then, and you know how I love fish.”

       “I know.  What kind of fish are they anyway?  I mean, they are living in relatively cold water, but look too big to be goldfish.”

       “They’re Koi, dear.  They are a created breed.  In fact, the best way to view them, and the way they are bred to be seen and judged, is from the top.  The colors are beautiful, aren’t they?  I love that gold one over there.  I wish I had a pond at home, an indoor pond, of course, so I could keep a few Koi.  They are far too large for any regular aquarium.  Maybe I can save up and buy a hot tub and convert it into a pond and get some.”

       “Hold on there, Johanna.  Let’s talk about this first.”

       “OK, honey.  It’s just an idea, and I didn’t mean right now.  We’ll talk about it later.  Right now, let’s just relax and watch these little guys enjoy their meal.  I mean, I  want to wait until I am licensed, at least.  Post Doctoral Psych Interns are not exactly at the top of the pay scale.”

       An hour later, Garrison and Johanna are walking toward their car when they see a lady lying in the bushes on the side of the road.  Garrison rushes over to her to see if she’s OK.  Just as he starts to bend over her, a man runs up and says, “Leave her alone.  She just passed out.”

       Garrison replies, “I was only trying to help.”

       “We were just walking along and she said she felt tired, and then fell down.  Here, Linda, take a drink,” he says, lifting a soda bottle filled with water to her lips.

       As the water passes her lips, Linda starts convulsing.  “Looks like she’s having a seizure, let me call the paramedics,” Garrison states, alarmed.

       “Don’t you dare say she is having a seizure, Buddy!  We’re truck drivers, and if they even think she has a seizure, she’ll lose her license and hafta stop working with me.”

       “Let me call the paramedics anyway.” Garrison says, as he dials 911.

       “Come on honey, wake up before the paramedics get here.”

       “No, pal.  You’ll wait for them, just to be sure she’s OK.  By the way, my name is Lew.  What’s yours?”

       “Mike.  Not that it’s any business of yours!”

       “OK, Mike.  Has she been drinking, or using any type of medication?”

       “Nah, man, we don’t drink, she’s never used drugs, or anything heavier than Tylenol.  She did have a flu last week.”

       “OK.  Well, the paramedics are on the way.  I’ll wait with you until they get here.”

Ten minutes later, an ambulance pulls up and a pair of paramedics hop out the back door as the drivers pulls to a stop. 

       “What happened?” the first one asks.

       “We were walking along and Linda said she felt tired and needed to rest.  Then she just fell down.”

“She appeared to have some sort of convulsion when he gave her water.” Garrison adds.

As the paramedic takes her temperature and pulse, he looks to his partner, saying, “We’re not getting the whole story here, John.  There’s something going on here.”

       Looking to Mike, he says, “OK, what’s she been taking.  We need to know now.”

       “Nothing, man.  We’re not into that stuff.”

       “You can tell me, or you can tell the cops,” the paramedic bent over Linda replies.

       “You gonna call the cops?  Man….” Mike says, as he starts walking off.      

       Garrison puts his hand on Mike’s shoulder, stating, “They don’t need to, Mike.  I am a cop.  Lew Garrison, homicide.  You are not under arrest yet, but if you leave the scene, you will be.  Now come on and tell us what she is on.  We want to save her.”

       Mike, looking at Garrison with unbridled hatred in his eyes, says in a low voice, “She shot up a little coke about half an hour ago.”

       The paramedics, now knowing the enemy, and having stabilized her enough for transport, put her on a stretcher and wheel her into the ambulance, calling in on the radio that they have an apparent cocaine overdose case on the way.  Garrison pats down Mike and places him under arrest for possession of a controlled substance after finding several small bags of cocaine in his left sock.  As Garrison calls for a car to transport Mike to jail, Johanna kisses him and says she’ll drive home and see him later after he has finished processing the paperwork related to the case.

58

       Garrison addresses the detectives assembled in his office, “I just got off the phone with Mayor Hilton.  She thinks it's time for us to call in the Feds for additional help.  I think she's right.  A profile on this animal might be just what we need.  There is a pair of agents on their way from San Francisco, assigned to us until the case is closed.  You are to cooperate fully with them, and help them in any way you can.  I think it'd be a nice idea if we all went to lunch together, and got to know each other that way, they should be here in about thirty minutes.  Let's make them feel at home.  Just like LT said, I don’t want any jurisdictional infighting.”

59

       Garrison comes out of his office, addressing the detectives, “Heads up, folks.  The feds have entered the building.  They are downstairs right now, talking to the Chief, he'll send them up in fifteen minutes.” 

60

       The detectives rise to greet the pair of agents as they enter the squad room.

       “Hello, I am Special Agent Giancarlo Riscotti, and this is my partner, Margaret O'Hara.  Call me Jon,” says the first agent, a lean man of about five feet, ten inches tall.

       “Call me Maggie, please,” says O'Hara, extending her hand toward Olson, the first along the line waiting to greet the new arrivals.

       O'Hara stands just under six foot.  Her red hair is tied back into a long ponytail, extending almost to her hips.  Her blue eyes provide a sparkling contrast to the fiery hair.  

       “Hello, John, Maggie, I'm Anita Olson.  Very pleased to meet you.  I just hope we can catch this guy soon.”  

       “So do we, Anita.” O’Hara states, smiling.  

       Noticing the look Bernard is giving him, Riscotti chuckles and asks him, smiling, “What's the matter, Dan, never seen a Black Italian before?  Not very many of us, I have to admit.”  

       “Sorry, just that when I read your name in the paperwork, I had a guy in mind that kind of looked like John Gotti.” Bernard replies, embarrassed.

       “Gotti?  Well, I always thought of myself more like Michael Jordan, but whatever, Dan.  No big deal.” Riscotti replies, laughing.

       The agents make their way down the line, meeting each member of the team.  Garrison is the last person to greet them, and asks the question they have all been waiting for, “OK, so, which one of you is the profiler? I don't mean to seem abrupt, but I'd love to hear about how you go about your business.”  

       Riscotti, stepping forward, states, “I am.  It'd take a while to explain in detail, since there is a lot that goes into making a profile.  I'd prefer to make it a mini-lecture, if you will, Monday, addressing the entire team.  At that time, I'll provide my preliminary profile.  I'd kind of like to just get settled in today.  We still need to get a hotel, make arrangements for secure phone lines, and so forth.”  

       Garrison, nodding, says, “That's a wonderful idea.  I'd like my team to know exactly what a profile can and cannot do for us.  Thanks!  You know, we were just about to take a lunch break.  We'd love for you to join us at our favorite place to unwind after work.  The owner's a real great guy.”  

       O'Hara is the first to respond, “Sounds great, I'm starved.”

61

        Sitting at a large booth near the back of the restaurant, Garrison motions to Maria.  Maria waves happily and slowly makes her way to the table. 

       “Hey, if it isn't my favorite customers!  How are you guys?  Been a while, Lew.”  

       “It sure has, Maria.  You know Anita, Alice, Dan and Ryan.  I'd like to introduce some new folks.  Jon and Maggie.  They're with the FBI.  They are going to help us on that Vindicator case.”         

       “Very pleased to meet you.” Maria says, shaking hands.  

       “Maria, is he in?  I'd like to introduce him to Jon and Maggie as well.” Lew says.  

       “Lew, has he ever taken a day off?  Let me go get him.” Maria says, smiling as she makes her way to the kitchen. 

62

       The kitchen door swings open, and a man emerges.  He's barely five feet tall, with fiery orange hair and green eyes, which are almost lost behind his glasses.  He makes his way to the table. 

       “Lew, you old trouble maker, what ya want?”  

       “I'd like to introduce you to some new friends.  Jon and Maggie are with the FBI.  They're here to help us with the Vindicator case, and I thought they should have some of the best Italian food this side of Milan.”  

       “Pleased to meet you.  This is my place.  My name is Salvatore, but my friends call me Sal.  Whatever you want, on the house.  That goes for all of you.  Any friend of Lew's is a friend of mine. I hate to rush, but I have a pizza in the oven about to burn.  My assistant cook called out today, so it's just Maria and Myself.  Ciao!”  

       As Sal makes his way back to the kitchen, the assembled crime fighters make their menu selections.   Riscotti mentions that Monella’s hair reminds him of a funny story, which the others beg him to repeat.

       “About a year ago, we get a call from the hospital that a suspect from a bank robbery was in the emergency room and ready to be taken into custody.  We wanted to know, naturally, how they knew he was the suspect.  Well, it seems this genius has robbed a bank, on foot, and stuffed the money down his jeans.  He got about a block away when the dye pack exploded.  He managed to get to the hospital and was writhing in pain when he told them that his groin area was burning and itching like crazy.  Anyway, when they pulled his jeans off, there he was, dyed bright orange from his waist to his knees.  I mean, I’ve heard about being caught red handed, but….”

       The others convulse with laughter as Maria comes to take their orders.

63

       In Garrison's office, the detectives sit huddled around a dry-erase board as Riscotti gives a brief lecture about the nature of criminal profiling.  Addressing the group, Riscotti says, “First, remember, profiling is only a tool. Profiling can never take the place of good investigative work. Profiling or profilers do not solve cases!  They are solved by investigators using all of the resources and tools that are available to them. A profile can assist in narrowing the search for the perpetrator.  Profiling is based on the practice of making informed assumptions based upon extensive review of the crime scene and victimology, and comparing what that reveals to interviews conducted with numerous past offenders.  There are certain commonalities that are found when looking at offenders that provide us with these informed assumptions.”  

       Riscotti takes a sip of water from the Styrofoam cup on the podium in front of him.  He then continues, “The first thing we need to look at in developing a profile is victimology.  It is essential to have a complete history of the victim, including their life-style, personality traits, employment, and so forth.  Essential elements of this history are the victim's family background, reputation, likes and dislikes, history and extent of drug and alcohol abuse, financial troubles, routines, and the last known person the victim spoke to and the circumstances, any enemies or any reason known that someone may have wanted to kill the victim.  In these cases, the victims are criminals, which leads me to believe that the killer is that we refer to as ‘The Missionary-Oriented Motive Type.’  This type of killer displays no psychosis to the outside world, but on the inside, this killer has a need to rid the world of what he considers immoral or unworthy. This type of killer will select groups of individuals to kill off, in this case, murderers.”  

       Noticing that the detectives are frantically attempting to keep up with him in order to take notes, Riscotti pauses for a moment, takes another sip of water, and continues, “There are many childhood traits common to serial killers.  These are based on interviews with thirty-six serial killers who agreed to cooperate with us in developing an understanding of their development.  There are numerous childhood behaviors that, when taken individually, are not cause for excessive alarm, but when taken together, are typical of a serial killer.  The most commonly reported of these are daydreaming, compulsive masturbation, isolation, compulsive lying, bed wetting, rebelliousness, nightmares, destruction of property, fire setting, theft, cruelty to animals or other children, and a poor body image.  The common thread to many of these is isolation.  There is also what is referred to as the ‘triad’ approach.  If a child exhibits fire setting, bedwetting and cruelty to animals, these three traits alone are a warning of future criminal behavior.  Beyond that, profiling is based upon commonalties with serial killers.  There are exceptions, but based on what we know from these victims and the crime scenes, I have developed a preliminary profile, which Maggie will now pass out to you.  Thanks for your time.” 

64

       The detectives are reading Riscotti's profile of the Vindicator, which reads as follows :

FBI PROFILE OF UNSUB : VINDICATOR

DESCRIPTION: INVESTIGATIVE ANALYSIS, F.B.I.

SAN FRANCISCO FIELD OFFICE

[Kurtis Benson] - Victim

[Juan Dominguez] - Victim

[Douglas Renfield] - Victim

[Irene Simpson]- Victim

San Garcia Police Department, San Garcia, California

 Homicide Department.

The following criminal investigative analysis was prepared by Special Agent Giancarlo Riscotti, in consultation with Special Agent Margaret O’Hara.

The analysis is based upon a review of the materials submitted to our agency, by the San Garcia Police Department and the conclusions are the result of knowledge drawn from this material and its relation to the personal investigative experience, educational background and research conducted by these crime analysts and by other FBI members.

It is not a substitute for a thorough well planned investigation and should not be considered all-inclusive.

This analysis is based upon probabilities determined through exhaustive research and interviews with known serial killers, noting however, that no two criminal acts or criminal personalities are exactly alike and, therefore, the offender at times may not fit the analysis in each and every category.

This analysis contains certain information of a confidential and sensitive nature; and is provided for your investigative assistance.

It should not be disseminated except to other criminal justice agencies with a legitimate investigative or prosecutorial interest in this matter.

VICTIMOLOGY:

Analysis of the victims in an effort to determine their risk factor is of significance.

The susceptibility of these victims becoming victims of a violent attack culminating in their death was examined in conjunction with their individual lifestyles, background, and overall social and physical environments.

We found in these victims” backgrounds or lifestyles one main factor that would elevate their risk of becoming victims of a violent crime, namely their involvement in a criminal lifestyle.

We consider all of these victims to be moderate- to high-risk victims.

The ages and races of the victims show a variance.  This indicates to us that the offender demonstrates no personal preference for age or race. Studies at CASKU have determined that even the most sophisticated criminal or street-smart person can be tricked or fooled.  Frequently, the tactic used is where the offender impersonates a law enforcement official of some sort.

During his contact with the victim, the victim's atonement will be the prime topic of conversation.  The offender's main obstacle will be to gain control of the victims and the situation.

In this particular case, although the victims are of different ages and races, and the method of murder in each case varies, the assumption is made that all of the deaths are related and all are committed by the same party. 

This is based on correspondence between the perpetrator and the press as well as letters written to the police.  It is also important to note that there is a similar modus operandi, as victim's original crimes are reenacted upon them. 

All of the victims in this case are classified as high-risk victims due to their involvement with drugs and a criminal lifestyle. This should serve as an identifying characteristic of the victims, therefore, it is advisable to warn persons being paroled that there is a person in the outside world who appears to have a vendetta against them.

CRIME ANALYSIS:

A meaningful behavioral analysis of a series of vengeance and/or revenge motivated attacks is best accomplished by examining the behavior during the commission of the attacks. In conjunction with these considerations, the following aspects are being set forth as significant.

The process by which an offender targets and/or selects his victims is of obvious importance.

We feel your offender likely uses the newspaper for selecting his victims and then proceeds to use sources that are as of yet unidentified to determine the current whereabouts of the victims. Once he locates the victim, he performs an extensive surveillance on them, primarily on the streets rather than their homes and does so both during the day and at night.

A study of the crime scenes demonstrates a primary focal point being the recreation, in exacting detail, of the original crime committed by the victim. Crime scene analyses further indicates that the offender was comfortable with the crime scenes, as some of the scenes took a great deal of time to stage.  The method of not disposing of the victims, in fact, of putting them on display to a great extent, indicates the offender will not demonstrate any sense of remorse over the death of his victims.  In fact, it appears that the offender is telling police that the deaths of these victims justified and he is providing a service to society.

Anger is the primary behavior exhibited by your offender. His intent is to punish the victims for their crimes.

OFFENDER CHARACTERISTICS AND TRAITS:

The offender sought is profiled as a psychopathic or sociopathic personality.  This offender is mobile, that is, he drives a vehicle quite a bit. The vehicle, according to our best estimates, will be somewhat conservative in make and model. Offenders such as the one we seek tend to prefer four-door conservative automobiles, which are a minimum of five years old, and not as well maintained as would be found in other cases.

The age of the offender can be determined by the sense of control he exhibits in initially contacting his victims, as well as his mobility.  These factors place him in an age category between his mid-forties to mid- fifties.   His victims are in this age range, or younger, and would have no reason to comply to the wishes of a younger person.  He has, apparently, used the threat or show of authority to gain control of his victims.  This indicates a man of middle age.

If the age estimate is correct, a previous criminal and/or psychological history is likely to be found. Criminally, assault and rape are typical of this type of offender.  If he has been treated for psychological problems, a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia or manic-depressive psychosis is most likely.  Note that this age grouping is very atypical, as most serial killers are considerably younger.  However, as there is no burnout with these offenders, it is possible, though unlikely, that he has been killing for some time without anyone being aware of it.

When it comes to the race of the subject, we are lucky, inasmuch as we have a description of the subject as “Indian-looking.”  If the victim making this identification meant Native American or Middle Eastern is not known.

The offender probably has prior criminal or psychological experience, either as a counselor or law enforcement official, or as a patient or offender.   Additionally, he comes from a family background that includes marital discord between his mother and his father, and in all probability was raised by a single relative. This relative, most likely a male other than his father, attempted to fill the roll of both parents by inflicting severe physical as well as mental pain on the victim (offender), yet nurturing him at the same time.  He consistently nagged his charge, particularly when the child rebelled against all authority figures.   The subject is likely to have experienced difficulty in school, which caused him to consider dropping out during his junior or senior year, but his guardian would not permit it.  He has average or slightly above average intelligence.

If he has a criminal record, it will be one of assaultive behavior. The arrests will likely be for assault, disturbing the peace, resisting arrest, domestic disturbance, etc. 

His aggressive behavior would have first surfaced during adolescence.

He is nocturnal and spends a good deal of time on foot in the target assault area.

The offender, in all likelihood, is not currently married or dating.  If he has been previously married he is separated or divorced at this time.  He, likewise, does not have anyone living with him.  He is likely to be a loner whenever possible, preferring solitary activities, to parties or interactive events.

The offender is believed to have an explosive temper and become easily enraged. This rage transfers over into the rest of his life.  He blames everyone else for his problems.

The offender will, in all probability, be in relatively good physical condition and not be extremely thin or fat.   He will, in all likelihood, work out when possible, and have a well-developed muscle tone.

He will probably be somewhat meticulous, neat, and excessive compulsive in his everyday lifestyle. It is believed that he is a beer drinker, and a smoker.

Since these killings, it is likely that he has been drinking more than he has in the past.

POST OFFENSE BEHAVIOR:

In the category of post-offensive behavior, the offender does not stay idle. He is probably a nocturnal individual and cruises in his automobile. He feels very comfortable during the evening hours, and when there is stress at work he likely cruises to areas where crimes are likely to occur.  He is likely to have some connection to law enforcement, or at least have access to confidential records.  It is, however, unlikely, but not impossible, that the offender is a law enforcement officer.

The offender has followed newspaper accounts of these homicides, and has contacted the paper.  He has likely clipped the newspaper articles for posterity.  The offender has had difficulty sleeping lately and has been experiencing frequent periods of anxiety. He will fear being found out, particularly if the newspapers report that investigators are conducting a thorough and exhaustive investigation.

Any further questions regarding this analysis or discussion regarding investigative strategy and interview techniques should be directed to SA Giancarlo Riscotti or SA Margaret O’Hara, FBI field Office, San Francisco, CA.

65

       The Vindicator sits at the counter of his favorite coffee shop enjoying a cup of coffee and a sandwich.  As he is about to take another bite of his ham and Swiss on rye, he feels a tap on his shoulder.  He turns to see a gentleman of about thirty years of age with three days growth of beard on his face.  It is his favorite source of information from the streets, Arthur. 

       “Hey, Art.  What ya got for me? I'm in a hurry, ya know.”  

       “Hey, bro, it's good, but I need some scratch if I'm gonna give ya this.  It's big, with a capital B.  Has ta do with a guy that was on TV as bein' one of da most wanted fugitives from justice, yo!.” Arthur replies quietly.  

       “Tell me what it is and if it's good ya get fifty bucks, if its not, you get smacked for wasting my time.” the Vindicator replies, angry that Arthur is being evasive.  

       “OK, man, chill!  That dude they's lookin' fer, Guido DeAngellis.  He's here in San Garcia, man!  He be usin' a differnt name, though.  He changed his hair and name, and is livin' here free as you please!.”  

       “Who is this guy, I mean, I don't watch much TV, so tell me what he's wanted for.” the Vindicator replies, even though he knows quite well what DeAngellis is wanted for.  

       “Man, he's the dude that whacked those folks in New York with the lead filled table leg, “cuz they owed his boss money.  He was an enforcer for a guy heavy into the family bidness there.  He beat those poor fools to death then left the weapon behind as a signature.” Arthur replies, acting surprised that the Vindicator, who deals with criminals every working day, doesn't know who DeAngellis is.  

       “OK.  So, tell me, what name is he going by now?  This is big, bigger then I gave ya credit for, Mr. Ittus.  Something this big, you get to be a Mister today, a business partner, kinda.” the Vindicator replies.  

       “OK, well, here's the think.   I know how to say his name, but not sure how to spell the last name he be usin'.  He be callin' hisself Joey Saaverda.  I think he spell it Ess Ay Ay Vee Ee Are Dee Ay, but I'm not absolutely sure.”  

       “Good enough, my man, good enough!” the Vindicator replies, laying a ten dollar bill on the table to cover the food and coffee, and handing Arthur two hundreds. 

       “My man, you know, that information was worth its weight in gold.  Buy something nice for yourself.  I have a lot of work to do with this information.  If you ever tell anyone that you told me, though, you won't see another sunrise, you understand me.  Best thing I advise you to do is get outta town.”  

       “Man, where would I go?  Besides, if people find I'm a rat, I'd be dead, anyway, so don't worry.” Arthur replies, scurrying out the door.  

66

       The Vindicator decides he has some shopping to do in order to prepare a welcoming party for DeAngellis.  His first stop is the Home Supply Warehouse.  He knows exactly what he wants, and finds it quickly.  The plain pine table leg is nicely made, resembling a miniature baseball bat of sorts.  It is fairly heavy and very solid.  He tosses this in his cart, along with a cheap hand drill and spare bits.

       He makes two more quick stops, the first at the bait and tackle shop for several small lead sinkers, the second at the cookware store for a small cast iron pot.  Having the necessary items for his new toy, he heads toward home, and a relaxing evening of reflection and planning. 

67

       Meanwhile, at police headquarters, Garrison sifts through the material that has come in so far on the Vindicator case.  There have been numerous phone tips suggesting that someone's neighbor might be the person, or their eighth grade English teacher, or their pastor, and so on.  So far, none of these tips have panned out at all. 

       Garrison hopes that he will be able to make more sense of the case if he writes the clues from each case on index cards, and then arranges these cards to see if a pattern develops.  This method was suggested to him by Riscotti, who has used it successfully in the past.  In fact, he has gone a step beyond, color-coding different aspects of the cases, such as victim profiles, religion, and method of murder.  The color coding will, if not truly assisting with the investigation itself, at least provide a bit of variety in an otherwise monotonous process.      

68

       After struggling with his index cards for nearly two hours, Garrison gives up on this plan of attack and tries to develop a new strategy for organizing the growing mountain of material on the case.  Frustrated with the lack of progress, he decides to call it quits for the day and heads toward home, leaving notes on the desks of his team members telling them to place whatever information they have obtained from follow-up interviews on his desk for him to review Monday morning. 

       Riscotti and O'Hara are back in San Francisco for the day, attending a workshop on the new computer system being installed in their offices at the FBI field office there. 

69

       After having had a very fitful weekend plagued with disturbing visions and voices, the Vindicator feels much better.  He knows he has to resume his mission, and to do so he must make the tool he will need on his next mission of justice.  He feels first, however, that he must write two letters, the first of which he will photocopy twice.  One copy is to be sent to the press, the other to the police.  The second letter will be one to be opened only in the event of his death, which he will carry with him on all missions, for failure to complete a mission, especially if there is no chance of future completion, will result, surely in his death.   The first copy of the first letter complete, he takes a moment reading it before sealing it in an envelop and preparing the next copy :

I understand they called in the FBI to help find out who I am.  That is not good.  The little games will have to get a little livelier now.  You still will never catch me.  I cannot be stopped.  God himself has spoken to me, telling me that I must to this.  Weaker minds do not understand the idea of a mission, but I do.  It is vital that my mission is not interrupted. 

With each completed step of my mission, my commitment to complete the mission becomes stronger.  You will not stop me.  You cannot stop what you do not understand. 

Justice must be served, and it shall be served.  It shall be served only to the extent that I am allowed to complete my destiny. 

You must understand, these people were not punished as severely they should be.  The Bible says justice is to be an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. 

Benson took the life of another person, and history has taught us, he who lives by the sword shall also die by the sword, or in his case, a knife.

 Likewise, Dominguez was shot down like the dog that he was.  I enjoyed watching his head explode like an overly ripe watermelon. 

 Renfield is deader now than if he had died.  He is in that state of being where his body does not know if he is alive

or dead, nor does his mind.  The Great Spirit is laughing at his plight.

Simpson killed five people, and blamed it on voices.  Well, many people have heard voices guiding them.  That is not an excuse for their actions.  They still know what they are doing.  It is an injustice that she was allowed to live peacefully on a hospital rather than being forced to truly pay for her crimes.

It took me to make her pay the proper price.  Justice was served, at last.      

 The spirits of my people have inhabited this land for centuries, and have always believed in true justice. 

If you have read this carefully, you have more than enough clues to know my identity, but you are not nearly smart enough to figure it out.  Have fun, piggies. - The Vindicator

       Pleased with his letter, he quickly dashes off a second copy.  He will write the next letter later, after he has completed a few more duties.

70

       The Vindicator takes his materials out to the barbecue pit in is back yard.  He places the pt on the grill, and lights the coals.  Into the pot he places the lead sinkers.  He knows that they need to melt into a very fluid liquid for his plan to work, but he has plenty of time.   As the sinkers are melting, he drills out the top half of the table leg with a hole approximately one inch in diameter and ten inches long.  Once this is complete, he pours the molten lead from the sinkers into this hole.  He then props the new tool upright against the wall to allow the lead to solidify again, making an excellent tool to exact justice upon DeAngellis.

71

       Monday morning, Garrison addresses his team by stating, “This morning, a note was found, addressed to me, under my windshield.   This letter was also delivered, the same way, to the editor of the Dispatch.  This letter, in part, states quite clearly that the Vindicator is a Native American.  This clears the only suspect we have a strong case against, Judge Hart.  We need to step up our efforts and reexamine all of the previous leads and see what we can come up with.  Riscotti and O'Hara can be of great help here, since this information is much fresher to them, and, since they haven’t read it as many times as the rest of us, they might see things we have overlooked.  Let's catch this guy, folks.  He is making me old before my time.  Just to be sure, though, so not entirely eliminate Hart as a suspect.  This may be a clever plot to throw us off his trail.”

72

       Garrison looks morose as he steps out of his office.  “Folks, I just got off the phone with the hospital.  The official body count has just climbed to three.  Renfield died twenty minutes ago.  We really need to nail this guy.  Does anyone have any ideas what we can do next?” 

       Riscotti clearing his throat, says, “Lew, what has worked well in the past is to lure the guy out.  This type of offender loved positive publicity and to show off how smart he is.  What we need to do is to go on TV and tell him how stupid he is and how we have an idea who he is, and we are closing in.  Put up some charts and tables, but leave them out of focus.  Let the guy think we have a tentative ID.  Maybe even try to get a TV special made about his case, and how badly he has screwed up.  This will either drive him to stop, or make him act hastily and make a mistake.  It's worth a shot, at least isn't it?”  

       “Well, Jon, that is an idea, but what if it drives him to kill again before we catch him.  I mean, there is no way to tell how many possible or potential victims there are in the San Garcia area.  Let's go ahead and tape a special, but not arrange to have it aired until we give it a few days going back over the data we already have.  There is an answer in there somewhere, but I can't seem to see it.  Let's all go over every scrap and then compare notes at 3:30.”  

       “When do we start taping, Lew?” Riscotti asks.  

       Garrison, consulting his Day Planner, states “Tomorrow morning, first thing.”  

       “That seems fair enough, Lew,” Risoctti states, making an entry in his own Day Runner.  Riscotti reflects how lost he would be without a Day Planner or PDA.  He shudders to think of the not do distant past when he was forced to rely on hastily scribbled notes that never seemed to have both the date and the time written down.

73

       Frustrated by a lack of progress, the detectives gather to discuss their next step.  Nothing is gained by their discussion and they decide to call it an early day so they can be fresh in the morning and ready to start taping the TV special they hope will draw the Vindicator into the open. 

74

       The Vindicator sits behind the wheel of his sedan, lying in wait at the curb.

       The club is heavy in his jacket pocket.  He is watching a young couple jog down the block.  They enter their house, finally, and the street is empty.  Just as he eases his door open, a yellow Camaro pulls into DeAngellis' driveway.  A balding man in his mid to late thirties bounces out of the car, and shouts out, “Yo, Joey! It's Rico.  Let's go out cruisin' and fishin' on my uncle's boat.  He said we can have it for two days, and it sleeps four.  Barbara and Melanie are waiting for us down at the dock.  Come on, you deserve a vacation.  After all, lyin' around all day is hard work.”  

       DeAngellis comes out of the door, and walks over to Rico, “Hey, man, sounds great.  Let's roll.  I need to get outta this place for a bit.  I need a little action.  Too many meddlesome neighbors around here.”  

       DeAngellis climbs into the passenger seat of the Camaro and, as the car pulls away, the Vindicator says to himself, “Soon, Joey, very soon.  See ya Thursday, heh.”

75

       The detectives sit huddled around Riscotti and O’Hara as they lay out their plans for the TV special.  Riscotti addresses them by stating, “Our goal here is to confuse the offender, that is, to make him think we are closer to identifying him than we are.  We also need to make him believe that an arrest is imminent.  What we can do is give the facts that we have, and embellish them a bit.  Also, we need to lead him to believe that multiple sting operations may be in place, and if he chooses to act, he it may be a setup.  Finally, we need to monitor closely all clues that are phoned in.  This is a similar tape that was used successfully in Chicago three years ago.”

       Riscotti slips a tape into the VCR and joins the detectives as the images start to fill the small screen. 

76

       The Vindicator, knowing that DeAngellis is due to return tomorrow, is rapt with anticipation.  He decides to test his tool, and knows just how to do it.  He is not entirely sure he can trust Arthur, so he knows that Arthur must be eliminated.  He also knows that, being a creature of habit, Arthur is most likely at the liquor store spending what little he has left of the two hundred he was given.  `

77

       The Vindicator is sitting on the curb, waiting, when he sees Arthur emerge from the liquor store with a paper bag containing a bottle of cheap wine.  He calls over to him, “Hey, Mr. Ittus, Come here for a minute.  I have some more money for ya if ya can give me a bit more info.”  

       Arthur looks around nervously, “Hey, man, not so loud!  And not here, man, let's roll to where no one sees me talkin' to you.  I'm gonna get in the back of your car and lie low until we's outta sight.” 

78

       The Vindicator pulls his car over and stops, deep in the woods in a deserted area of Eastern San Garcia.  He opens the back door to let Arthur out.  As soon as Arthur is out of the car, he is hit over the head with the club. 

       The Vindicator looks at the unconscious form, and says, “You'da talked, Artie, I know you would have.  It's best this way.”

       The Vindicator, knowing that he has much more work to do, repeatedly beats Arthur until his skull is crushed and all of his ribs are broken.  Convinced that no one could survive such a beating, he gets into his car and takes off, backing over Arthur's prostrate body for good measure.        

79

       Garrison addresses the detectives “OK, folks, we got our TV time.  Channel Thirteen will run our special Monday at 7:00.  Let's get it in the can by tomorrow.  I think we can re-use a large portion of my lecture tape from the academy.  We’ll just need to edit some audio, changing references to a seminar attended to a special that has been viewed.  It provides a basic overview of serial killer psychology.  Keep up the good work.  So far, what I've seen is great.  Now,we just have to hope it either draws him out or gives someone enough of a clue to alert us as to his identity. Otherwise, we are dead in the water, so to speak.  This case is producing no solid leads at this time, and may never be solved if we don’t come up with something soon.

80

       The Vindicator sits in wait in DeAngellis”' home.  He is buzzing with anticipation, as he hears the car pull way from the curb and DeAngellis shout, “Catch ya later, Rico.” 

       As soon as DeAngellis is in the door, the Vindicator is on him, beating him mercilessly with the club.  He hits him first over the head, then methodically makes his way down DeAngellis' body, breaking every bone he encounters along the way. 

       “How do you like it, Joey?  How to you think they felt, eh?  Now you'll know what true justice is.  I feel kinda like Babe Ruth musta felt hitting a home run.”  

       Leaving the club next to the battered and broken body of DeAngellis as a calling card, the Vindicator makes his way out the door, whistling as he walks across the street to his waiting car.       He reflects on how much easier it is getting all the time to perform his duty, seeing this as a supernatural endorsement of sorts, perhaps a Devine blessing .

81

       Garrison, sighing deeply, addresses the squad, “We got another one last night.  Overnighters did the CSI.  Nothing we can use.  Their notes are here.  Please examine them in detail.  The brief rundown is as follows: Victim was Guido  DeAngellis.  Beaten to death with a lead filled table leg.  Like the other scenes, no prints, nothing we can use, apart from the weapon itself.  It was left at the scene.  Unfortunately, since it was made from all readily available materials, it is of little use.  We need to nail this guy.  Please, folks, let’s not let this be the case we let slip away.”

82

       The detectives sit huddled around the TV in the squad room, watching the TV as the special they made begins to air.  They are also there to answer the phone once the special is over, in case any hot leads come in. 

       The special begins with images of the victims flashing across the screen in rapid succession.  Then the camera pans to Olson, who sits behind a mahogany desk and addresses the camera, “Hello.  I'm detective Anita Olson of the San Garcia Police Department.  We are in need of your help.  There is a serial killer in our midst, and he calls himself the Vindicator.  His victims, whose photos you see here, have all been persons who themselves are murderers.  He has repeated their crimes upon them.  Although he has concentrated on this population thus far, it is not necessarily safe to assume he will always do so.  Many times, these people branch out once their current supply of victims runs out.  Killing, to them, becomes addictive.  The suspect is described as a large Native American gentleman in his mid forties to mid fifties.  He is a beer drinker, and probably a smoker.  Over the next few minutes, you will see reenactments of the crimes.  Please, if you have any information that me be of use to us, call the number at the bottom of your screen.  Thank you for your assistance.”  

       The scene fades and the screen is filled with Benson's face, then a reenactment of Benson's murder is shown, followed by reenactments of the murders of Dominguez and Renfield. 

       Olson is again seen in the screen, stating “Now, I want to turn the rest of our discussion over to an associate of mine.” 

       Riscotti’s image fills the screen.  "Hello, ladies and gentlemen.  I am Jon Riscotti of the FBI.  I am a specialist in the psychopathic mind.  Our goal here tonight is to gain a better understanding of what a serial killer is and how The Vindicator fits into this picture.  We will explore this in a multifaceted manner, which will start with a definition of a serial killer, and conclude with a discussion of The Vindicator himself.  We will explore psychological as well as behavioral issues.  Some of the issues discussed may not pertain to The Vindicator directly, such as various possible psychological illnesses that may lead to irrational and/or violent behavior, but the discussion of these factors is part of the overall picture, as we do not know who The Vindicator is or what motivates him. A complete transcript of my lecture will be available after tonight's special by calling the number that appears on your screen.  The cost for this transcript will be five dollars."

       On the rostrum, Riscotti pauses to fill a glass with water from a pitcher on before he continues, "Before we can start to discuss what it is that serial killers do, we must first define exactly what a serial killer is.  Many people tend to place serial killers and mass murderers into the same group or category.  However, they are two entirely different types of killers.  It is true that both types of killers may kill a large number of people, but the difference lies in their motivation for the killing and the time span over which they commit their crimes.  A single significant event can sometimes trigger a mass murderer and causes him or her to act. This event may be the result of a particularly stressful situation at work or in their private lives, for instance.  This is often seen in your workplace violence incidents, where a client of a business, or even an employee, goes to the business and kills several people.  The classic example, of course, is the postal worker who kills fellow line workers and/or the supervisor.  For whatever reason, this person chooses to use a weapon and kill people that they feel are in some way responsible for his or her problems. This person may also kill total strangers, often in a bid to seek some sort of revenge against the true object of their anger. Whatever the reason for their outburst, this type of killer is usually cooperative if he or she survives the episode, which often they do not, as they kill themselves more often than not. While the mass murderer kills many people in a single incident, when the incident is over, they do not repeat the act of murder.  The victims of a mass murderer are most often chosen for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

       Riscotti pauses for a moment to catch his breath, then continues, “However, a serial killer is an entirely different and much more dangerous threat.  While they may not necessarily kill a large number people at any one time, they quite often are able to kill for many years without being detected. The reason they are able to kill so many times without being caught is because they are quite often very careful in the method by which they select their victims. Quite often, they pick victims who are in some way vulnerable and unable to defend themselves.  For example, women, children, the elderly or the ill.  They also may select victims who they feel will not be sorely missed by society, such as prostitutes, hitchhikers or, as is the case with The Vindicator, criminals. Some serial killers even select targets based on certain characteristics such as a particular physical build or hairstyle. Due to the fact that serial killers are often mobile, similarities in methods and crime scenes may often go undetected by local law enforcement agencies.  Here in the United States, there have been more than one hundred and fifty serial killers documented since 1800. At any one time, it is estimated that there may be from thirty to fifty serial killers active in the U. S. Serial killers tend to operate in cities or areas large enough to support prostitution, drug cultures, runaway children or street people.  It is nearly impossible to accurately predict if a person will become a serial killer at some point later in life. However, a set of childhood indicators believed by many to be symptoms of future violent behavior exists.  Known as the 'McDonald Triad', named after psychiatrist John McDonald, it states that three factors in an individual's  childhood may be indicative of future violent behavior. These three factors are bed wetting, fire setting, and the  torture of small animals.  There is a great deal of evidence that many serial killers exhibited some or all of these factors in their youth. In fact, it is almost universal that serial killers have exhibited at least two of the legs of this triad.  While there are many people who exhibit some or all of the symptoms of the McDonald Triad who do not become serial killers, sadly some do. It is important to note that these factors are not seen as causes, but rather as merely a set of symptoms."

       Scanning his notes, and turning to a new section, Riscotti continues. “Who, you may ask, is the typical serial killer?  How can we identify him or her?  Well, that is hard to say.  There are some commonalities, but there are, of course, exceptions, as there are to all rules.  A serial killer is most often a white male in his late twenties or thirties.  He commonly murders his victims by beating or strangulation. He may often appear uncaring or distant, showing absolutely no remorse for his actions.  He may also deny responsibility for his crimes.  While this may seem hard to believe, psychosis or severe mental illness is very rarely present. It is important to note, that while most serial killers are male, an estimated ten to fifteen percent are women. Where males are more likely to use extreme violence such as beating, bludgeoning, strangling, or other forms of torture, women tend to favor poisoning or smothering their victims. Males may stalk their victims, where females are more likely to lure their victims to their deaths.  Further, there are two main categories in regards to how organized the killer is.  The disorganized killer fails to plan, is often sloppy and most often, gets caught quite early in their career, due to leaving a great deal of evidence behind due to this lack of organization.  An organized killer, on the other hand, plans ahead, carefully controls the scene, and often leaves no evidence.  Further, an organized killer is more likely to have compiled a ‘murder kit’ for just this purpose, often consisting of items such as gloves, condoms, various weapons, restraints, and often disguises.  Regardless of organization, serial killers often take trophies from their victims.  Often this will be something as telling as a lock of hair, or often it will be jewelry, which he will give to his wife or girlfriend.  In doing this, he can relive the crime many times, as he will be reminded of his work every time he sees this trophy.  You’ll notice that I mentioned a wide or girlfriend.  Most often, serial killers are married or involved in a lasting relationship."

       Riscotti, using a remote control, turns on an overhead projector.  The screen behind him fills with a man’s face.  This image begins behind him, then fills the television screen.  "Let's now turn our discussion to a few examples of serial killers.  First, we will examine the case of Herbert Mullin.  By all reports, Herbert Mullin enjoyed a fairly normal childhood. By the time he was twenty, however, Herbert started to become violent, and became a drug user. Diagnosed as a Paranoid Schizophrenic, Herbert breaks the general rule that serial killers are most often not psychotic.  Herbert visited his parents in Santa Cruz in 1972.  At this time, Herbert began to hear voices. His father's voice would instruct him to go kill people.  Herbert first clubbed a man to death.  A few months later Herbert picked up a hitchhiker, stabbed her to death and dumped the body. Herbert's third victim was a Catholic priest.  The priest was stabbed to death in a confessional. At this time, Herbert claims Albert Einstein told him telepathically that Herb was the 'designated leader' of his generation and he had to sacrifice people to stop earthquakes. Then the voices changed in his head to random people offering themselves to be killed for this cause. Herb killed five such people.  Coming across some teenagers illegally camping, Herb first told them to leave but then shot and killed them. A few days later, while delivering firewood, voices told him that he could not deliver the wood until he killed someone. On his way to deliver the wood, Herb noticed a seventy-two year old man, who he shot and continued on his way, never leaving his vehicle."

       Riscotti changes the slide, and a new face appears.  “Next, let's look at Ed Gein.  Ed was considered a gentle man who everybody trusted. Ed was said to have had a very strict childhood. His father died when he was still quite young. His mother decided to would raise her children alone and not marry or be involved in any relationship. She told Ed and his brother Henry that all women were bad and that sex would lead to nothing but heart-breaks and diseases. Ed later stated that he felt his mother was purely good in every possible manner.  Some authorities speculate that he may have had a sexual relationship with her. Ed’s mother and brother both died, and Ed was left with a farm which didn't even have such basic needs as electricity. Ed worked many odd jobs, such as handyman type work and baby-sitting.  Ed was later found to have conducted some very disturbing experiments. He often indulged himself in anatomical textbooks. He went to the local graveyard and exhumed numerous bodies, including that of his mother. He even skinned the corpses and dissected the bodies. Late in the evening, he would take off his clothes, put on a suit he made of his mothers skin, and walk around the house. Ed eventually started killing other people. Although he only murdered two women (Mary Hogan and Bernice Wordan), Ed is still considered a serial killer. After the murder of Bernice Wordan, the majority of the evidence left behind lead directly to Ed.  Upon arriving, police discovered an assortment of shrunken heads, drinking glass skulls, and skin furniture. Ed didn't even realize that what he had done was considered to be wrong.  He was so unaware of the nature of his deeds that he even invited the police in for coffee.  Upon entry, police found that there was a human heart simmering in a saucepan. They then found Bernice hanging in the barn, gutted and strung up like a deer. Ed was arrested and later found to be insane. He was institutionalized for the remainder of his life. The poplar movies Psycho and Silence of the Lambs were based on his story.”

       Again changing the slide, Riscotti takes a long drink of water, and continues,  “Finally, let's look at the infamous Ted Bundy.  Bundy was probably the most brilliant serial killer of all time. Bundy, who dropped out of law school and even worked as a crisis counselor, went on to murder thirty six women , in a killing spree that lasted a decade.  Ted grew up in a male dominated household ion which his father would scream, yell, and beat his mother. Ted’s relationships never seemed to last.  Ted was seen as a very mild, well liked gentleman.  When he was a teenager, Ted even saved a child from drowning.  Ted found most of his victims on universities and beaches. He used a fake cast to help swindle his eventual victims.  Women would often feel sympathetic and help him with his books or in some other way. This would prove to be their last mistake. Ted's preferred methods of killing were strangulation and bludgeoning.  He was very adept at covering his tracks and not alloying others to notice him. He would leave the area which he lived, often traveling as much as three hundred miles,  to find his victims.  Ted was eventually apprehended based on a tip from his wife, who found a box of cast material.  Ted's personality provided him with a lot of latitude in the courts. Being a law student, he decided to represent himself.  One day in court, Ted asked to be excused to go to the bathroom.  The court room was on the third floor, so no escape attempt was considered, and this request was granted. Unattended, Ted jumped from the window and escaped with a broken leg. Following a state wide man hunt, Ted was apprehended a few days later. He was then shackled in the courtroom and his freedoms were taken away.  Ted was convicted of thirty six counts of murder. Following his conviction, Ted admitted to the crimes.  Ted had a hard time remembering the names because of the large number of victims. Bundy was executed on the 24th of January in 1989. His final statement was "Thirty six is the wrong number, you have to add one more digit" If this means he may have killed one more, ten more, or a hundred more, will never be known.  Perhaps, he was referring to himself, as well.”

       Riscotti turns off the projector, refills his glass from the pitcher next to it, and continues, “Now, we turn to examining what might create a serial killer.  We'll start with an examination of the role that fantasy may play.  Fantasy can be said to play a very important role in the creation of a serial killer.  It is often seen in the areas of remorse, the uniformity of their victims, as most serial killers target persons fitting into a certain category, and whether or not they follow an individualized style. The combination of these elements may demonstrate the fantasy being lived out by the serial killer.  One fact must be stressed.  Most serial killers are extremely intelligent.  They have to be, to avoid being captured.  They also demonstrate this innate intelligence by the use of the various guises they employ to ensnare their victims.  That is the end of this introductory discussion.  I strongly urge you to study more, if you prefer, and the transcript provides a list of resources that I feel are most appropriate for this study.  Thank you for your attention, and I hope you were able to glean some benefit from your viewing of our special tonight.”

       The screen fades to black, and the phone number is all that remains. 

83

       The phones begin to ring almost immediately.  After about an hour of nonstop calls, they stop just as suddenly.  From this hour of diligent note taking, six possible leads emerge.  These are assigned to the detectives, including O'Hara and Riscotti, to be followed up on first thing Tuesday morning. 

84

       Riscotti pulls to the curb in front of the office of Dr. David Thompson.  Having made an appointment for 10:15, he walks leisurely toward the door at the top of the stairs.

       Upon entering the waiting room, Riscotti is shown immediately to Thompson's office.  Thompson greets him warmly and asks him the nature of his visit.  When told that he is being questioned in regard to the Vindicator case, Thompson sighs deeply  “Must be Heidi, my ex-wife.  She's doing everything she can to stir up trouble.  I assure you, I have nothing to do with the case, Agent Riscotti.  If you wish, I'll take a polygraph to prove my innocence.”  

       “Dr. Thompson, do you keep records of your whereabouts, when out of the office?  If you have an appointment book, it may help clear you easily.  I hope you understand that we have to follow every lead we get that has even the least bit of viability.”  

       “Certainly, I know you are just doing your job.  Let me see.  Here're my appointment books for February, March and April.  May is in my car, but I can go get it if need be.”  

       “Well, let's start with February.  Where were you on the evening of February third?”  

       “Let me see.  That evening, I was home alone.  I was recovering from a flu, and had been off work since the first.  Went back the fifth.”

       Thompson states.   “OK.  How about April twenty-first?”  

       “Let me open that book.  OK.  I was in San Diego at a convention from the nineteenth to the twenty-third.  I think my secretary still has my hotel receipts and so forth.  Let me see.”  Thompson says, pressing the button on his intercom, “Lydia, can you check and see if you still have my receipt from the ALA convention in San Diego?  If you do, please bring them in. Thanks.”  

       Five minutes later, Lydia enters the office with receipts in hand.  These she hands to Thompson, who in turn gives them to Riscotti.

       “Thank you sir.  This definitely seems to establish that you were not here when Mr. Dominguez was killed.  Thank you for your time, sorry to have troubled you.” Riscotti says, rising from his chair, extending his hand. 

       “Not at all, Agent Riscotti.  I know you have a job to do and I thank God every day that someone is out there keeping the streets safe.” 

85

       Meanwhile, across town, Olson is sitting in the home of Winston Oliver.  Oliver, a retired professor in his late fifties, does not seem to fit the physical description at all.  He can hardly be described as large, at five feet six inches and barely one hundred pounds.  Olson tries to make the interview as quick as possible, since she is certain this is not the offender. 

86

       His interview with James Bluesky concluded, Firmii makes his way back to his car.  He reads over his notes before pulling away from the curb and merging into the traffic.  Bluesky, a graduate student at UCSF, was in class taking a midterm examination on February third, clearing him in the Benson case.

87

       Ed Ochoa, an electrical engineer, answers the buzzer on the first ring.  “Yes?”  

       “Officer Ramirez, SGPD, Mr. Ochoa.  May I come in?” Ramirez replies to the box on the wall.  

       “Just one moment, when you hear a buzz, go ahead and open the door and I'll be right out.”  

       Hearing the buzzer, Ramirez opens the door and walks to the counter in Ochoa's workshop.  The counter is unmanned, and Ramirez is looking at the display on the wall beside it when Ochoa wheels his wheelchair into the room. 

       “May I help you?”  

       “Sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Ochoa, we were obviously given misleading information.  Your name was given to us in relation to a case that, it appears, you could not possibly be involved in.  If you don't mind my asking, when did you lose your legs?”  

       “I lost them in “Nam.  VC minefield.”  

       “Well, thanks for your time.  Sorry to have disturbed you.” Ramirez replies, then adds “By the way, do you do repairs on computer monitors?  Mine is acting up, giving me a lot of red in the display.”  

       “Sure, bring it in and I'll take a look.  Best deal in town, I guarantee.  I charge a flat rate on monitors of twenty five bucks, plus parts.”  

       “Great, I'll bring it in this weekend.  Thanks!”  

       “OK, Officer Ramirez, have a nice day.”

88

       O'Hara is frustrated in her attempts to locate Tom Walters, a transient with no known address.  She has been tracking various leads since 9:00 without success.  She decides to give up for the day, and waits for the others to return to see what they have learned. 

89

       Having finally located Jack Watts fishing off the pier at San Garcia River, Bernard approaches him slowly.  Walking over to him, Bernard calls over to him. “Mr. Watts.  I'm officer Bernard.  I need to talk to you.”  

       “What is this about?” Watts asks.  

       “Sir, your name was given to us as a possible lead in connection to the Vindicator case.”  

       “What case?” Watts asks, confused.  

       “The Vindicator.  The vigilante that is going around killing paroled murderers.”  

       “I don't know what you're talking about.  I just got back in town last night, been in Alaska for the last six months.  On a commercial fishing boat.”  

       “Do you have any proof of that?” Bernard asks.   “Sure.  Here's my pay stub.” Watts replies, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the stub.  

       Perusing the pay stub, Bernard nods.  Handing it back  to Watts, he states, “Thank you for your time, sir.  Sorry to have bothered you.”

90

       The Vindicator reads the morning paper, searching for some guidance as to who the next person he should pay a special visit to might be. While scanning for any clue to follow, he runs across a small article, obscured among the larger stories in the Metro section:

Kyle Johnston, who hanged a fellow teenager six years ago at the age of fifteen, is due to be released from custody today.  He was sentenced to serve a term of six years in a youth rehabilitation program, to be released upon his twenty first birthday.  Johnston must also spend his first six months in a halfway house.  The young man Johnston hanged, Donald Grillo, was said to have been the school bully.  At his arraignment, Johnston said he had simply grown tired of Johnston's constant threats and acts of violence.  Johnston was unavailable for comment.

       The Vindicator smiles, as he decides that Johnston, indeed, should be visited.  He realizes the risk in trying to abduct Johnston from the halfway house, and doesn't even know which halfway house Johnston will be residing in, but he had a plan that will surely provide him with the opportunity he seeks to exact his form of justice upon Johnston. 

91

       Picking up the phone, the Vindicator calls the first of the five halfway houses in San Garcia, reading from the script he prepared, and grateful for the abandoned house a few miles from his own home, “Hello, this is Franklin Portugal.  I have a house at 1574 Mining Road South.  I was reading in the paper today about Kyle Johnston being released.  I'd like to help him, by offering him a job doing general maintenance and yard work at my house.  If he is one of your clients, can you please send him this way, and I assure you, I will take full responsibility for him.”

92

       The Vindicator strikes gold on his third call.  The person on the other end of the line agrees to send Johnston out the next morning, as soon as his paperwork has been processed.  She also informs the Vindicator that a condition of Johnston's stay at the halfway house is that he finds a job.  She thanks the Vindicator for his help and kindness and hangs up. 

93

       Garrison, surrounded by mounds of paperwork, reflects on his upcoming birthday Tuesday.  Forty-five!  Where did the time go?  He quickly decides on one thing, and leaves his office to address the team he considers “his detectives” until Harmon returns to duty.  

       Speaking in a low voice, Garrison says, “OK, guys, you know my birthday is tomorrow.  What I would like is for all for you to come to my place for an 'Over-The-Hill' party.  I don't want any gifts, or anything.  But it would mean a lot if I could share my forty fifth birthday with people I care about.  Bring your spouses or significant others.  My place, 6:00.  It'd mean a lot.”  

       Olson, looking around the room, says, “I'll be there, Lew.  And there's no way you'll talk me out of bringing you a gift.  You're like family to me.”  

       Around the room, the members of the homicide team nod and agree that they, too, would love to attend. 

       Riscotti looks at Garrison and says, “Lew, I know I haven't known you that long, but I do consider you a true friend.  Of course, I'll be there!” 

       O'Hara, smiling, walks over to Garrison.  Giving him a hug, she says simply, “Count me in too, Lew!”

94

       The sound of the phone on her desk ringing startles O'Hara, who has dozed slightly.  “Hello?”  

       “Yes, I understand you were looking for Tommy Walters.  Well, I don't want to be a rat, but he's done me wrong in the past and I can tell you where he is.  Check the alley behind Joe's bar on Seventh.  He started sleeping there last week.  He said he'll stay until he's forced to move on, which is not likely to happen anytime soon, since Joe”s is closed until he gets his liquor license back.”

       Just as suddenly as it began, the conversation ends, with the buzzing on the end of the line signaling the caller's having hung up. 

95

       Armed with a year old photo, and a warrant for failure to appear in court on numerous misdemeanor charges, O'Hara walks up to Walters, who is shooting craps with three other homeless men, “Thomas Jerome Walters, you are under arrest.  You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”  

       Leading Walters toward her car, O'Hara feels that she has the right person. After all, he fits the physical description nearly perfectly and is immensely strong. 

96

       O'Hara and Riscotti decide to handle the interrogation of Walters.  Their plan is to start by confronting him on his outstanding warrants first, then hitting him over the head with The Vindicator case.  As they enter the room where Walters sits slumped in a chair, Riscotti is in the lead.

       He starts the questioning “Mr. Walters, it appears you have little regard for the law.  We have in our hands here fifteen unanswered misdemeanor warrants and citations.  You were arrested because you refused to take care of these.”  

       “I can't afford the fines.  I don't have no job, and I need all the money I can get from beggin' just to eat.” Walters replies, angrily.  

       “We can make these warrants go away, you know.  We don't care about your public intoxication, jay walking and small stuff like that.  What we do care about is these folks you've killed.  Several people have called to tell us that you are The Vindicator.” O'Hara tells Walters.  

       “What?  Who said that?  I ain't killed nobody!” Walters replies, very upset.  

       “Then, can you tell us where you were on the night of February third?” Riscotti asks.  

       “Man, I can't tell you where I was last week, much less way back then.  My mind doesn't always work so well, ya know.  I forget things.” Walters replies.  

       “OK, then, Mr. Walters.  Perhaps a few days in lockup will refresh your memory.” O'Hara says, walking to the door.  Arriving at the door, she opens it and calls out to the duty officer, “Get this slime-ball out of here, he's no use to us right now.  Get him back to his cell.”  

       Riscotti exits the room, and whispers to the duty officer, “No phone privileges, no visitors, no contact with anyone until we tell you differently.  Use any excuse you can.  This is our guy, we just need to sweat him a little.”  

       The duty officer nods, and goes into the interrogation room to escort Walters back to his six-foot square cell. 

97

       Expecting his guests at any minute, Garrison and Johanna are relaxed and happy.  Garrison, clad this evening in blue jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt with “Grateful Dead” across the top, and a picture of a teddy bear, turtle and skeleton playing baseball, is sorting the tapes he plans on playing throughout the party. 

       Johanna, clad in a tie-dyed sundress, a bandanna over her hair, is urging him to select a good mixture of old and new tapes.   At 7:15, there is a knock at the door, and Garrison walks over and opens the door. 

       Olson takes a step back in shock “Lew.  Wow!  I've never seen you without a shirt and tie. Happy Birthday, old man.  I know you said no presents, but I still brought you this.”  Olson hands him an envelope.  

       “Thanks, Anita!  I'd like you to meet the love of my life, Johanna.”  

       “Hi, Johanna, glad to finally meet you. Lew has told us so much about you.” Olson says, extending her hand.  

       Johanna walks over to Olson and gives her a warm hug.  “Lew has told me a lot about you too, Anita.  He really admires you.  He says you are the best young detective he has ever had the pleasure of working with.  Are you alone tonight?” 

       “Tonight and every night, unfortunately.  Not many guys want to date a cop.” 

       “Well, I was hesitant at first, myself, but Lew won my heart.” Johanna says, smiling.   “Besides, he is one of us Deadheads, so how bad can he be?  Still don't understand how that cop that spoke to him in high-school convinced him to enter that line of work, but he is good at what he does and he loves, it, so who am I to complain.”

       Olson begins to walk toward the sofa, and notices an aquarium in the corner, and goes to take a look.  Johanna walks over and says, “So, you’ve seen my babies.”

       “They’re cute little guys.  I know absolutely nothing about fish, but those blue guys with the black dots sure are cute.”

       “Ah, my blue Gouramis.   They’re great.  That red guy over there is the same kind of fish, or the same species anyway, just a different genus.  He’s a Red Fire Dwarf Gourami.”

       “What are those little guys on the bottom, they’re all staying together.”

       “Those are Corydoras catfish.  They’re really great at eating left over food.  Those yellow slim ladies are Guppies, as are those guys chasing them with the red and blue tails.   The guys that look like watermelons are Zebra Danios.  They like to hang out together and are hardly ever still.”

       “I noticed that.  I recognize the Angelfish.  Whoa!  Whose that huge black guy, kinda looks like a leopard with those spots.”

       “He’s a Plecostamus.  He eats all the algae off of the rocks and glass.  He’s a sweetie.  Those other two are a pair of Swordtails, although the female has no sword, so why she has the same name, I don’t know.”

       “Well, looks like you have a nice little family there, and they all seem to get along well.”

       “They do now, I made the mistake of putting a large Pink Convict in the tank when I first set it up, and she ate quite a few of them.  Cichlids are aggressive, except for the Angelfish I have, and a few other types.”

       “Well, looks like there’s a lot more to keeping those guys than I ever realized.”

       “There’s a science to it, of sorts, but it is fun.  Come on, let’s go have a seat.”

       Just as Olson is having a seat on the sofa, there is a knock, and Lew opens the door to reveal Ramirez with her boyfriend, Gabriel Martinez.  As they are entering the house, Firmii and his wife Kathryn and Bernard and his wife Olga are coming up the steps.  

       Introductions are made, and several gifts are given to Garrison.  Just as everyone is getting settled in, there is a loud sound just outside the door, sounding to Garrison like a charging elephant. 

       Out of curiosity, he opens the door to reveal Riscotti and O'Hara with a large air horn.  

       “You guys scared the life outta me, Jon!  What are you trying to do?  Kill me? HA HA.  Come on in!” Garrison says, clutching his chest and making an expression like a man about to keel over of a heart attack.

98

         Olson asks if Garrison has a stereo so they can get the party going right.  Garrison points her to the corner, where he has his tape decks and speakers set up.  Olson, calling out from in front of the massive machines asks, “Lew, how do you operate this thing?  I mean, it looks like you could summon Mars or something.”   Walking over to the Nakamichi RX-505 decks, Garrison chuckles, and says, “You just push the 'power' button in the upper left corner, then the 'eject/load' button in the right corner.  Put the tape in upside down, with the tape pack on the right.  By the way, make sure it is setup for onetime auto-reverse.  Here, let me do it.  OK.  Now pick whichever tape you want to play and push 'eject/load' again and then play.”  

       “How do I know which tape?  I mean, I have no idea what these tapes are.  These labels are, you have to admit, a bit cryptic.  I mean, what is 'LV-051995-IA'?”  

       “Easy, Anita.  Las Vegas, May Nineteenth, Nineteen Ninety-Five.  Set one, Side A.” Garrison replies, laughing.  

       “Yeah, but who?” Olson asks.  

       “Anita, all I own are Grateful Dead tapes, or related bands.” Garrison says, smiling at her.  

       “Shoulda known.  Why don't you choose.”  

       As Garrison reaches over to pick up a tape, his sleeve rides up slightly, revealing a tattoo of a skull with a rose garland as a wig. 

       “Wow, Lew.  I never knew you had a tattoo!” Olson says, with surprise.  

       “Yeah, got it back in eighty-three.” 

99

       The party is in full swing as Garrison tells everyone, “OK folks, let's listen to this song with some reverence.  After all, it is the song where Johanna and I first fell in love.  The first West Coast 'Unbroken Chain', Las Vegas, May Twenty First, Nineteen Ninety Five.”  

       The music fills the air, and you can notice that the crowd is listening with just as much reverence.  As the song finishes, Riscotti asks, “Lew, where did you get such a good concert tape?  I mean, bootlegging is illegal, you know.  And you being a cop and all, I'm surprised.”  

       “Jon, I thought you would have known, being from San Francisco and all, but the Dead allowed fans to record their shows.  I recorded this one myself, using my trusty old D-6.” 

100

       Olson finally asks the question everyone has been wanting to ask but failed to, “Lew, when are you going to open your gifts?”  

       Garrison, smiling, says, “Well, no time like the present for the presents.”   As he opens the envelope from Olson, his eyes widen. 

       “Wow, Anita, tickets for Phil and Friends!  I don't know how to thank you!”  

       “Lew, what else could I get out resident Deadhead?  You mentioned how much you enjoyed last year's Furthur show in Irvine, and since they canceled the tour this summer, I figured that would be the perfect gift for you.”  

       “Thanks again!”  

       Opening the slender box from Firmii reveals a neck tie, yellow with a marsh like scene repeated on it multiple times.  Turning the tie over, he sees the label on the back “J. Garcia.’ 

       “Thanks, Ryan!  I love Garcia's artwork, and now can wear it to work.”  

       The remaining packages reveal a new badge case from Bernard, a bottle of cologne from Ramirez, a gift certificate to Monella's from Riscotti and a new wallet from O'Hara. 

101

       As the party starts to wind down, the detectives grumble about having to call it a night so early, but with The Vindicator still out there, they have a lot of work to do in the coming days and need all of the sleep they can get, since sleepless nights on surveillance duty may not be that far away.

102

       The Vindicator Task Force, as the detectives now think of  themselves, is discussing the viability of Walters as a subject.  O'Hara and Riscotti are adamant that he fits the description as closely as possible.  

       Riscotti states, “His psychological profile fits perfectly.  Numerous past arrests for fights, attempted murder, and attempted rape.  Additionally, he was diagnosed as Bipolar with psychotic features.  This is our man, I feel it in my gut.”  

       O'Hara agrees with him, adding “He is also a large Native American, forty years of age, and has no alibis for any of the dates concerned.  He served time with Benson, and from what I've heard, they did not get along well in prison.”  

       Garrison, looking around the room, asks, “How do the rest of you feel?”   The general consensus is to promote Walters as a suspect in the newspaper and on TV, and if he is not The Vindicator, he may spark a reaction from the actual offender.  

103

       The Vindicator is angered when he watches the news on TV.  He shouts out loud,  “How dare they say that someone else has performed the services I have!  This man Walters cannot claim my glory.  I must prove to them that they have not won!” 

104

       As the taxi drops Johnston off at the house, The Vindicator welcomes him.  Little does Johnston know that its true owner abandoned the house several years ago.  This owner has moved to Michigan.  The Vindicator takes Johnston on a tour of the house, showing him what work there is to be done. 

105

       Just as Johnston is finishing weeding the planting area, The Vindicator slips behind him and clamps his hand over his mouth.  The rag soaked in chloroform quickly accomplishes sits purpose, and Johnston slips to the ground, unconscious.  The Vindicator quickly ties his hands and feet, wraps his mouth with duct tape and puts him in the trunk of his car. 

106

       The Vindicator pulls to a stop just off the jogging trail.  Looking around for any sign of pedestrians or cyclists, he quickly pulls Johnston from the trunk.  Leaving him hidden among the trees, he gets into his car and drives to the parking lot.

       Returning on foot to where he has Johnston stashed away, The Vindicator tosses the coil of rope over the branch of a tree about fifteen feet off of the path, and fits the nose over Johnston's head.  

       Johnston's body shakes violently as he is raised with a sharp pull of the rope, shaking off the effects of the chloroform.  Just as The Vindicator is tying the rope to the root of a nearby tree, he hears a scream.  He turns and looks over his shoulder at an elderly lady walking a poodle.  He turns back and quickly jogs through an opening in the trees toward the parking lot, as soon as he out of sight, he slows to a walk. 

107

       The police cruiser quickly drives past as the man in the jogging suit is climbing into his five year old Ford.  He smiles and waves at the officers as they drive past, getting into the car, he turns the ignition over, saying to himself , “There is the proof I sought, I am truly invincible.” 

108

       The Vindicator quickly drafts his letter to the task force.  He is angered by the thought that they claim another has performed his services.  He knows that me must personally deliver the letter, as he did the others.  As he finishes the letter, he reads it over, with satisfaction:

The man you hold is a pretender.  He cannot claim the prizes I have given you.  Tonight, you almost had me.  I walked right past your little piggies at the park, on my way back to my car.  By the way, the prize I left in Mountain View Park was the most fun yet.  You should have seen the spirits dancing when I strung him up.  You have stopped nothing, you have merely angered me.  Only when I feel that my job is done will I stop. 

There is so much more work to do, so much more...

109

       The Vindicator reads the newspaper story with anger.  His decision to deliver the letter is renewed, as the headline declares a victor that is false:

VINDICATOR IN CUSTODY

       Tom Walters, a homeless man living behind a nightclub, was arrested yesterday in connection to The Vindicator case.  Vindicator Task Force representative Lewis Garrison tells us that Walters fits the psychological profile developed by the FBI almost perfectly.  Garrison also states, “the physical resemblance of Walters to the man described by a previous victim prior to that victims death is uncanny.  His viability as a suspect is unparalleled thus far in this investigation.  We have you, the people of San Garcia, to thank.  Walters' involvement was brought to light because of an anonymous telephone tip received as a result of the TV special.  We feel very strongly that he is responsible for these crimes.”  Walters himself is not available for comment on this case until his arraignment next week.  A public defender has been assigned to represent him. 

110

       Garrison's face is ashen as he addresses the group assembled in his office.  “This morning I found a note under my windshield.  It looks like Walters is not our man after all.  In fact, it appears that by proclaiming Walters as a suspect, we have angered him more than we anticipated.  He also claims responsibility in the Johnston case.  He said the investigating officers drove right past him last night as he was walking to his car.  We need to nail this guy before he strikes again.  At least we can hold Walters for his warrants.  We need to alert the media that Walters is not our man.”

       “Sorry, Lew, he fit the profile so well.  I guess sometimes, I myself put a little too much faith in the profile and forget that it is only a tool, not a rule book.  We will nail the guy, just not today, it looks like.” Riscotti states, apologetic.  

       “Jon, I thought he was our guy, too.  It's just too bad that no other leads have panned out.  Should we take another look at Hart?”  O'Hara asks.

       “No, he's been out of town since Sunday.  He's in Houston visiting a sick brother.  He is officially eliminated as a suspect.” Garrison states, with a sigh. 

111

       The phone on Garrison's desk rings, and a voice that is obviously disguised by a handkerchief says, “The Vindicator is one of your own.”  The line dies in Garrison's hand as he struggles for a response.

       One of his own.  What did the caller mean?  A Task Force member?  A police officer?  A homicide detective?  Garrison quickly dials Star-Sixty-Nine, but is rewarded only with the message that although his service is working, it cannot connect to the number from which the call was made.  Garrison, making a note of the call just in case, decides that it is most likely a crank call and has no meaning. 

112

       The evening news carries the story of Walters' clearance in The Vindicator case.  The Vindicator, in a heightened state, writes a letter that he will deliver to both the police and the newspaper:

At last, you see the beauty of my work.  The spirits that guide me told me you would.  My mission is not yet complete, and this will be my last communication with you.  the spirits say it is far too risky to talk to piggies and news-hogs.  You will know when I strike again only by reading the original case files of my clients.  These clients I shall free from their limbo and send to the place where their spirits can rest knowing they have paid the ultimate price for their wrongdoings. - Vindicator 

113

       The Vindicator awakens in a cold sweat.  The demons are fighting in his head.  He knows that the blue headed demon will win again, but the green headed demon is growing stronger.  He knows that the blue-headed demon will eventually die, and the green headed demon will take over.

114

       Driving down the street, the Vindicator nearly runs into the car in front of him. He is sure that the man he just saw exit the clothing store is none other than Ronald “The Bulldog” Davis.  All he needs to verify his identification is a look at Davis' left ear.  He quickly pulls into an open meter half a block ahead of Davis on the street.   Walking down the street, me bumps into Davis, excuses himself, and smiles as he walks away, having noticed the deep cleft in the left ear lobe, dividing it into two distinct sections.  It is definitely Davis, without a doubt.  He watches Davis cross the street and step into the small diner.

        Returning to his car, the Vindicator awaits Davis' exit from the diner.  While he is waiting, he is thinking back to when Davis made headlines as the first Mafia member to be convicted in San Garcia.

115

       Davis exits the diner, unaware that he is under surveillance.  As he walks to his motorcycle, he doesn't pay any attention to the car across the street.

       Davis pulls away from the curb, and makes his way toward the freeway.  Merging into traffic, he accelerates and gets his bike up to freeway speed.  Three cars behind him, the Vindicator keeps him in sight.

116

       Davis pulls his bike over to the curb in front of Monte's, a popular biker's bar in the heart of downtown San Garcia.  The Vindicator pulls his car to a stop next to Davis' motorcycle and waits for him to exit the bar.  How sweet it will be, he thinks, to pay a special visit to Mr. Davis. 

117

       As Davis pulls his motorcycle away from the bar, he nearly runs into the Ford at the curb, waving, he drives away, unaware that his wallet lies on the ground next to where he had parked his Harley.   The Vindicator quickly picks up the wallet and, returning to his vehicle, finds what he is looking for.  “537 West Bend Avenue.” he says to himself.  Nice.  Mr. Davis will appreciate the return of his wallet, I'm sure.  Now, just to get an old Tokarev seven millimeter.  I know just who to talk to.

118

       Having dressed appropriately for the occasion, the Vindicator goes to his closet to remove the handcuffs he keeps there, purchased back in February, just in case such a need arose.  Noticing that they have grown dull with dust, he decides to oil and clean them.  While he's at it, he might as well clean his other pair.

       Using gun oil and a chamois, his hands encased in latex gloves, he lovingly brings each pair to a nice chromed shine.  Although his personal pair is quite old, it looks as good as new, due to his loving maintenance.  The newer pair, the pair he has for use on his mission, looks the same.   As he sets the cuffs aside to air dry, he thinks about the times ahead, the missions yet to complete, and the joy he will encounter when fulfilling his destiny. 

119

       The Vindicator awakens from a light slumber with a start, his leg jumping and kicking the table, knocking both pairs of handcuffs to the floor.  Grabbing the pair nearest him, he rushes out the door to go and greet Davis. 

120

       Davis goes to the door to answer the summons posed by the heavy knocking.  Looking out his door, he sees a large man dressed in jeans covered by leather chaps and a leather cycle jacket over a blue denim shirt.  Opening the door, he is greeted by a smile, and the news “Mr. Davis?  I found your wallet yesterday.  I know what it's like to lose a wallet, ya know.  Just wanted to make sure you got it back.”  

       “Thanks!  I think I must have lost it near Monte's, right?  That's the last place I went before I came home, and I had it there.”   As he raises his eyes to look at the kind soul who has so kindly returned his wallet, Davis is greeted by the black eye of a gun muzzle. 

       “Go into the house, Bulldog.  It is time to pay your dues.”   Davis, turning to run, is overcome with a sharp pain behind his left knee and falls to the floor.  Turning to see what the source is, he notices the large man holding a police style baton. Before he has a chance to scramble to his feet, the man is on his back, cuffing his hands behind him.  

       Placing the muzzle of the gun to Davis' head, the Vindicator says, “Good night, Davis.  Rot in pieces.” and pulls the trigger. 

       The Vindicator reads the Dispatch with a big smile:

The body of Ronald Davis, a former Mafia enforcer, was found in his home at 3 O'clock this morning by his girlfriend.  Davis was shot in the head with a Czechoslovakian made pistol. Further details will be provided as they are made available. Davis was thirty- five. 

121

       The Processing of the Davis crime scene having been completed that morning, the handcuffs are sitting on Garrison's desk.  He notices that they are the same Peerless cuffs issued as standard equipment to San Garcia Police officers and most security guards.  He also knows that the Military Police prefer Smith & Wesson handcuffs.

       Examining the cuffs, he makes a note of the serial number, 767543.  Although the serial numbers are not registered upon purchase, he figures a check can’t hurt.  If the cuffs were bought at any of the numerous adult bookstores or police supply stores, they will be nearly impossible to trace. His only hope is that the cuffs were issued to a security guard or active duty police officer.  

       Picking up his phone, he dials the extension for Michael Longado, the records clerk.  “Mike, can you trace a serial number for me?  Peerless handcuffs, number seven-six-seven-five-four-three.  Try calls to the various private security firms first, then go into SGPD records starting with this year and working your way back as far as the records go.  Thanks.”

122

       Longado stares at the screen in disbelief, when the serial number returns a positive result.  The handcuffs in question were issued to Justus Harmon during his rookie year.  He tries to reach Garrison by telephone, and then remembers that the entire Vindicator Task Force is at a briefing in San Francisco.  He makes a note of his findings and goes upstairs and places it squarely in the middle of Garrison's desk. 

123

       Garrison finishes the strategy session by stating “OK, remember, Harmon may not be the man we are seeking, but it appears that he is.  Let's not use any more force than is absolutely necessary.  I can't believe it's him, but we are committed to following all leads.  Let's roll.” 

124

       The Vindicator sees the cars as they come slowly gliding along the long driveway.  He realizes that his time has come to an end and that he would not survive in prison, removing the note he has written for just this occasion, he places it on the floor, lying beside the note, he takes the pistol he used to eliminate Davis, places the muzzle in his mouth.  Smiling, he pulls the trigger. 

125

       Hearing the shot, Garrison jumps from his car before it has come to a complete stop.  Stumbling, he rights himself and runs to the door.  Finding the door locked, Garrison steps back and kicks solidly at the door, next to the handle.

       The door flies inward, revealing Harmon laying on the wood floor in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.  Stooping next to Harmon's body, Garrison picks up the envelope, noticing the outside labeled  “to be opened in the event of my death.”  

       Ripping the envelope open, Garrison pulls out the neatly folded paper inside, slumping to the floor beside Harmon's body, he unfolds the paper and reads:  

If you are reading this, it means I'm dead.  I lived my life well and performed a service others were afraid to perform.  The spirits that spoke to me these past several months guided my hand.   The demons battled relentlessly, but I never let the blue headed demon die.  He was my counselor, my guide.  My uncle taught me when I was young that justice must always be served, and I was doing just that.  The green headed demon tried to tell me that I was doing wrong, but you cannot do wrong when you are fighting for justice.  Justice was served.

       Rising from the floor, Garrison stumbles out the door.  Addressing the circle of detectives on the lawn, he says simply, “It's over.  It was him.” and walks to his car, pulling away from the reservation in tears. 

       Slipping a tape into his cassette player, he drives to a quiet place to think, listening to Garcia sing “Standing On The Moon.”  The song has taken on a new meaning to him now.

EPILOGUE

       The entire squad having taken a long weekend to recover from the shock of Harmon's suicide and involvement in the Vindicator case, Garrison exits his office his first day back to work since is illusions were shattered, Garrison exits his office and approaches Riscotti and O'Hara as they clean out their desks, “Not so fast, guys.  I have an announcement to make.” 

       Addressing the entire group, Garrison says, “I just got off the phone from a conference call with the Chief and the SAC of the San Francisco FBI office.  Jon and Maggie are requested to stay with us on a full time basis.  Also, give me your shields, the Chief has new ones on the way.  He was so impressed with or work on the Vindicator case that he has reassigned us.  We are no longer a part of homicide, but these will remain our offices.  We are now to be known as the “Serial Crimes And Tough Case Investigation Team.’  The Chief wants to thank us all personally with a dinner in our honor tonight.  Attendance is mandatory.  I have been, reluctantly, assigned to lead this new force as your Lieutenant.  As you may or may not know, I had taken and passed the test years ago, but refused the promotion.  I wanted to remain in the field and not stuck behind a desk.  Well, now, even as a Lieutenant, I will be able to go out into the field.  I insisted on that as a condition of accepting the promotion.  In fact, that is the only reason I even decided to accept it.  Most of all, I want you to know, I am your ‘boss’ in title only.  This will be an entirely equal team.  Everyone will have an equal say in the decision process and I will be in the trenches with you.  Let's just remember, folks, Harmon was a sick man.  Apparently, he had been suffering from Paranoid Schizophrenia for twenty years.  His medication was working great, but he stopped taking it without any reasonable explanation in February.  Let's remember the good times, and the good Justus did, not the bad.  Now, since I am your boss, no matter how reluctantly that may be, I say that you all need to take the rest of the day off.  See you at the Chief's dinner tonight, 6:30.  By the way, the Mayor will be there as well, she wants to thank us personally.”

       The detectives, smiling, remove their shields from their pockets and place them on the table.  To a person, they look forward to their new roles with a mix of anticipation and excitement.  What the future brings for them in their new capacity, only time will tell.      