Bailey’s Law
Meg
Lelvis
© 2016 by Meg Lelvis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a
reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper,
magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is
granted by the author.
First printing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the
author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-61296-772-1
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING www.blackrosewriting.com
Printed in the United States of America
Suggested retail price $
Bailey’s Law
is printed in Book Antiqua
For Gary,
Kristin, Rebecca
Acknowledgments
Special Thanks to:
Reagan Rothe and his staff at Black
Rose Writing.
To editor Roger Leslie.
To HWG leaders Roger Paulding, Fern
Brady, Lynne Gregg.
To special critique friends: Barbara
Andrews, Connie Gillen, Mark Pople, Jim Murtha, my sister, Carole.
To Tom Williams for cop advice,
Gail, Kaye, Monica, and book club.
BAILEY’S LAW
Chicago, 1990
First
week in homicide. The supervisor, beefy, seasoned detective from the old
school, takes him aside. Don’t ever
forget, Bailey, the person you work
for ain’t me, it ain’t the chief, ain’t even the citizens of this town. You work for the victim. He’s your boss. You
break your ass getting justice for him, you gotta be his voice, cuz he ain’t
talkin. ’ You got that?
He got it all right. Know your victim, what makes him
tick, and you got motivation. Only problem, what if your victim is your enemy?
Sometimes whoever killed so-and-so did society a favor. Know your victim, but
you might not like what you learn. Truth is, most victims are victims, and
deserve to be treated with respect.
The best cops don’t always follow the letter of the
law, they enforce the law. They navigate in gray areas of human morals, ethics,
scruples. A good cop interprets the law according to his own conscience and
understanding of decency and fairness, with public safety the ultimate goal.
From time to time the rules must be bent. The crucial
part is knowing the time when you see it.
Jack Bailey’s most life-defining time
is yet to come.
Chapter 1
Twenty Years Later
The minute Lt. Jack Bailey walked
through the door of the Richmond, Texas police station, he felt buzzing tension
in the air. The entire atmosphere was on high wattage. Several people scurried
by him on their way out the door, nodding in hurried greeting.
Detective Hector Reyes approached him. “Just got the
call. Big accident out on Warren Road. At least two dead. Head on collision.
Fire department was first responder.”
“Let’s take a look. Hope it’s not school kids this time of
morning.”
Jack didn’t bother with accidents unless the
department was short staffed, but this sounded more urgent than the regular
fender benders that prevailed in Richmond. A salty, fifty-eight-year-old man of
solid build, Jack was tough, hardened, and did not mince words. No one could
accuse him of impersonating Mr. Rogers. Dark hair streaked with gray crowned a
chiseled face that reflected the brooding, tragic image of a film noir actor.
Many people called Jack a dead ringer for Liam Neeson. At least they were both
Irish.
.
. . . .
As the two men headed south out of
town, Hector spoke to the dispatcher. Jack’s cell phone rang, and he turned it
on speaker mode.
“Yeah, Moose. I’m on the way with Hector.
What’s the latest?”
“God, Jack, it’s a bad one. Don’t have ID’s yet, but
one guy, he’s…”
“What?”
“It’s unreal. He’s all mangled. Got
cut in two.” “Jesus,” Hector muttered.
“Yeah, a couple of our guys lost their
breakfast. So be prepared.”
“Right,” Jack said. “Is Nolan there?”
“Yeah. She’s right here looking green around the
gills and shaky, but holding up.”
Kathleen Nolan joined the squad a couple years ago.
Young, blond, and attractive, she earned the respect of her colleagues through
hard work and attention to detail. She was still the target of good natured
teasing, but developed a thicker skin as a matter of survival.
“OK, Moose, see you in about five.” Jack turned off
the cell. “May need a barf bucket for Nolan,” he chuckled.
They arrived at the scene, parked behind another
cruiser on the shoulder of the two lane road, and emerged from the car.
August’s early morning heat and humidity shrouded Jack’s body and crept into
his bones. After six years, he’d learned not to fight it, but he still missed
the climate of Chicago on days like this.
The odor of gasoline assaulted their nostrils as
their shoes crunched over shards of shattered glass and sidestepped chunks of
metal strewn over the road and shoulder areas. Spilled gas blanketed the
pavement and glistened in the unrelenting sun. Several patrol cars, two
ambulances, and a fire truck parked haphazardly along both sides of the road,
their flashing lights invisible against the bright morning sky.
“Anybody figure out what happened?” Jack asked
several officers standing about five yards from the crumpled mess of what used
to be two cars. A white van had reduced what may have been an Audi to a heap of
scrap metal for a junk yard. Another vehicle lay upside down in a ditch
alongside the wreckage, its front squashed like an accordion. A tall,
stringy-haired photographer in worn jeans darted about, bobbing here and there,
camera clicking away, with an attitude of self-important urgency.
Asshole’s looking for the most gruesome shot.
Probably hoping for a Pulitzer, Jack thought.
He’d never been able to stand the
arrogant prick.
“Jesus,” Hector said looking around. “I hate the
word, ‘surreal’, but this is fuckin’ surreal.”
“We don’t know anything yet, Lieutenant,” Kathleen
said as she joined the group from behind the ambulance. She looked shaken. Her
blond hair was held back in a ponytail, and beads of perspiration dotted her
forehead.
“Wait till you see the one body. Remains is more like
it. Don’t plan to eat anytime soon,” another cop warned Jack and Hector.
Jack wasn’t worried about himself as they approached
lead detective Moose Gustafson and several EMT’s, hovering over two covered
bodies on the shoulder of the road. Jack had seen plenty of gore when he worked
gang-banger and drug-infested neighborhoods in Chicago’s turbulent south side.
Moose led the group to a shallow ditch of tall grass
beside the over-turned mound of metal.
“Son of a bitch,” Hector muttered.
“Hell, in twenty years I’ve never seen anything like
this poor bastard,” Jack admitted.
“He must’ve been in his sixties,
maybe seventies.”
“What a way to end up,” Moose said. “Looks like a
magician took a saw and—”
“Well,” Jack paused. Waited. “I think it’s safe to
say he ain’t half the man he used to be.”
There was dead silence, then the officers broke out
in raucous laughter. All except Kathleen, who stood there with an incredulous
look on her face.
“That’s an awful thing to say, Lieutenant. How can
you say something like that?” her voice indignant. “This is no joke. He’s
probably somebody’s father.”
“Come on, lighten up, Nolan,” Jack said. “I’ve waited
my whole career to use that line. Don’t steal my thunder.”
Kathleen jammed her hands on her hips. “Excuse me if
I don’t think it’s funny.” She turned on her heel and marched away in a huff.
The officers were still snickering. “We told you not
to hire her,” someone chuckled.
“Well, we need our token blond chick,” another cop
joked. “Gotta get our laughs somewhere.”
“All right, stifle it and get back to
work,” Jack said.
“I’ve never heard Nolan speak up like
that.” Moose smiled.
“Maybe she’ll get out of kindergarten
after all.”
“Better not tell her any Ed Gein
jokes,” Jack said.
“Ed who?” Hector asked.
“Never mind. I’ll save it for another time.” Jack
wiped his face with a white handkerchief and proceeded to work the scene with
Moose and Hector, stepping aside so the two CSI guys could complete their
tasks. The sun continued to smother their bodies as they examined the wreckage.
The grease-ball photographer appeared out of nowhere like an annoying fly.
“You still here? Not enough blood and guts for you
yet?” Jack growled.
“Now Lieutenant, you know I’m only here to report the
news,” the guy sneered, his matted hair stuck to his neck.
“Okay, here’s some news to report: you’re an
asshole,” Jack said. “Now get the hell out of here.”
“I second that,” Hector added. The man backed away,
holding up his hands in mock defeat.
“Prick.” Moose kept wiping his brow, attempting to
keep his straight blond hair out of his eyes. Navy-colored half-moons stained
the underarms of his pale blue shirt.
Moose Gustafson, whose stature bore no resemblance to
his nickname, was lead detective in the Criminal Investigation Division. Richmond
was a small city, with only seven members in the CID, including Jack, who
supervised the group. Moose, with his tall, Nordic good looks and amiable
personality, was a popular figure in the RPD. He harbored a sweet tooth, ate
like a horse, and remained lean as a rail.
“Wanna wrap it up, Jack?” Moose asked after what
seemed like an hour. His ruddy face glistened with sweat.
“Yeah, let’s go.” Jack wiped his forehead with his
handkerchief, by now a drenched, wadded up ball. “Heat’s a bitch. Need some
AC.” “And a shower,” Hector added.
No one in the squad knew much about Jack Bailey,
except that he relocated from Chicago six years ago. He never spoke of family
or anything close to a personal nature. His only real friend, Moose, knew
nothing about Jack’s background. He sensed his colleagues wondered about him,
but that was their problem. They’d never understand his past. Jack chose to
remain a closed book.
That afternoon, Kathleen ran into Jack in the hallway near
his office.
“Nolan,” he smiled. “Glad to see your color is back.
That shade of green didn’t suit you.”
“Very funny. You know, I’d heard about your gallows
humor before, but that comment this morning was—can’t think of a word. Anyway,
I’ll get over it.” She walked away, yellow pony tail swinging.
“Wait,” Jack called. “I’m not the hard ass you think
I am. I have a lot of sympathy for that poor guy. In fact, I hope he rests in
pieces.” “Not funny,” Kathleen retorted, still walking. At least she was
starting to show some balls.
.
. . . .
Several days later, the accident
victims were identified and paperwork completed. The unlucky dismembered
gentleman was from out of state visiting relatives. Forensics guys surmised he
was speeding, lost control, and hit the oncoming van head on, causing a third
vehicle following the van to crash into it. Another fatality was an
eighty-year-old woman, and three other adults sustained non-lifethreatening
injuries. The case was wrapped up, but no one in the department would forget
the grisly scene anytime soon.
.
. . . .
Things were tedious at the station
the rest of the week, and Jack was restless. Lately he felt more depressed with
his life. Downright bored. He missed the pulse of city life. True, Richmond was
only thirty miles from Houston, but on weekends he was too lethargic to make
the tiresome drive into town for quality restaurants, museums, and theaters. He
hadn’t been to the Alley since King Lear
two years ago. Jack told no one about his cultural interests. Didn’t want to
ruin his image. But they were diversions from the root of his problems. All
things considered though, relocating to Richmond as an escape seemed like the
best answer six years ago. Now? Who the hell knew.
Chapter 2
The next morning started out like any
other. Jack unlocked his office, surveyed the clutter, retrieved his Chicago
White Sox mug from a pile of papers on his desk, and headed for the kitchenette
for his jumpstart for the day. Freshly made coffee was always ready, and today,
some kind soul had brought doughnuts. Jack grabbed a couple before they
disappeared.
“Leave some for Moose,” Hector said as he reached for
a blueberry filled.
“Yeah, if only he’d gain a pound.” Jack chomped into
a glazed one.
Hector, who made detective last year, was about
Jack’s height, but could afford to drop twenty pounds. At age fifty, he sported
a thick head of black hair and a heavy mustache. A Richmond native with a large
extended family, he bristled when people asked where he was from. He informed
them that his great-grandparents emigrated from Mexico in the 1800’s, and he
was as American as anyone else who worked and paid taxes.
“All right, chocolate icing!” Moose joined his
friends. “Surprised there’s any left.” All three wore short sleeved cotton
shirts and khaki’s, their standard summer uniform. They kept ties on hand for
meetings and such. As a lieutenant, Jack should be wearing his uniform, but he
bent the rules and got by with it.
“Anything on board for today?” Moose bit off half his
doughnut as they walked toward their desks.
“Just usual paperwork and maybe tie up loose ends on the bust
on
Second Street last week.”
Jack entered his office as the others walked on. His phone
buzzed.
“Yeah, Jill. Just walked in.” He placed his mug and
extra doughnut on his desk and listened in silence to his long-time office
assistant. “Got it. We’re on our way.”
He pressed another button on his phone. “Moose let’s
go. We got a body.” Finally, some excitement around here.
As the men emerged from the station, suffocating heat
once again engulfed them in its grip.
“Another sauna,” Moose muttered. “I should move back
to Wisconsin.”
“How many times have I heard that?” Jack unwrapped a
stick of gum and put it in his mouth.
They hurried through the parking lot and into the
cruiser, while Jack relayed what information he knew. “The vic is a young guy,
probably in his twenties, single gunshot to the chest. Roommate found him a
little while ago. Don’t know the exact time. It’s a house in the west part of
Pecan Grove.”
“Did Jill say anything else?” Moose
asked.
“That’s about it. Hector’ll stay put to
question the roommate.”
Jack sped east down Preston Street away from the
downtown area. The AC kicked in, bathing them with cool relief. He darted in
and out of traffic and eight minutes later entered Pecan Grove, an area known
for its upscale homes, tasteful landscapes, and Christmas light displays.
However, in the older section, property values had declined over the years.
Although yards and houses looked shopworn, it was still considered a safe,
comfortable place to live.
Jack followed the GPS onto America Court, a cul de
sac with five houses in close proximity.
All were small, one story homes painted in light
colors, most in obvious need of enhancement. One patrol car sat in front of a
pale blue residence with shabby white shutters and a faded wooden door.
Jack parked the car behind the cruiser, and the two
men hurried up a cracked sidewalk, past overgrown hay-like grass and dying
shrubbery. He pounded on the door and yelled, “Bailey here, open up.”
He jerked the handle, pushed inside, and was met by
Denise Williams, a veteran patrol officer, who chimed in a jocular voice,
“Bailey, about time you showed up.” Her dark skinned, smiling face showcased a
set of gleaming pearls. “He’s over there on the sofa.
Taking a siesta.”
Moose followed Jack through the dim, gloomy entryway
to the living room at the right. It lacked even minimal decor. Nothing on the
colorless walls, no end tables or lights except a plain black pole lamp beside
a brown threadbare easy chair. A faded gold sofa sat against the far wall, a
clump of stuffing peeking out of torn fabric on an arm rest.
A male body slumped forward at the other end of the
couch. An average-sized young white guy with wavy brown hair, he sat with his
chin resting on his now crimson white t-shirt, as if he were taking a snooze.
His left side leaned into the arm rest with his wrists crossed over his upper
thighs.
Ragged tan cargos were splashed with dark red
blotches, and black rubber flip flops halfway rested on his long feet. The
sweet metallic tell-tale odor familiar to all cops permeated the room.
“Holy shit,” said Moose. “Made more mess than I
thought from a single shot.”
“Shame to ruin this nice sofa,” Jack said as he took
in the copious blood stains. “Any ideas, Williams?” He reached in his shirt
pocket, retrieved another stick of spearmint gum, and popped it in his mouth.
Damn, he missed smoking.
“Not much. I got here about eight minutes ago. Heard
it on dispatch on my way in.” Denise tried to smooth down her wiry black hair.
“Roommate was all shaky. Couldn’t talk straight. Claims he spent the night at
his girlfriend’s apartment. Found the body like that this morning.”
“Where’s the roommate now?”
“Fitch was here right on my heels and took the kid to
the station for further questioning. Wanted him gone before the scene got
crowded. Looked about twenty to me.” After another futile attempt to smooth her
unruly hair, Denise took a red scrunchy from her pocket and created a
make-shift bun.
“Okay, the team’ll be here any minute,” Jack said as
he leaned in, observing the body from different angles, careful not to touch.
“Looks staged, almost sitting up with the wrists crossed.”
“Yeah, that’s what first struck me,” Denise added,
still fiddling with her hair.
“I agree. I’ll start searching now,” Moose said. “Doesn’t
look like robbery.” He fished out latex gloves from his pocket, pulled them
onto his large paws, and headed left toward the kitchen. Jack frowned as he
noticed darker splotches of blood on the corpse’s groin area. A sex crime? Hmm…
“No evidence of forced entry or struggle. Here’s more
info.” Denise flipped open a small notebook. “Roommate’s name is Derek Walls.
Deceased was Todd Kaplan. Both worked at the Olive Garden at Brazos Mall.
Worked last night till 10:00 or so, and roomie and girlfriend left together.
Todd supposedly went home.”
“Okay,” said Jack looking toward the front door.
“Here’s the team.”
“Coming in,” shouted a voice at the front door as
five squad members descended on the scene, including Kathleen. Two forensics
guys opened their black cases, donned latex gloves, and retrieved instruments
and cameras, while Jack pointed out the body’s private area to the team.
Kathleen’s face turned a rosy pink. Another detective and a patrol officer
listened as they glanced around the room.
“Secure the perimeter,” Jack instructed the officer,
who immediately headed outside to cordon off the yard with yellow tape. Several
neighbors congregated on the street and sidewalk, gawking with curiosity at the
blue house and appearing to speculate amongst themselves.
Jack hoped one of them might have information about
why someone would bump off young Todd Kaplan. The autopsy report would also
tell its tale in the next day or two and explain the extra blood below Kaplan’s
waist. Who was this guy?
