Cruel Justice

33

FIRST THING IN THE morning, Ben stopped by his office to check on what progress, if any, his associates were making. Christina was hard at work preparing exhibits and witness examinations for the trial. He hadn’t actually asked her to do that, but he was relieved to see it was getting done. He had been concerned that he would never be ready when the trial started, especially since he was spending most of his time investigating, but seeing the amount of quality work she already had managed to generate gave him a glimmer of hope.

Jones had prepared a report summarizing all the information about the murder he could glean from newspapers and other written records, which he presented to Ben in a spiffy plastic folder with a spiral binder. If they were in high school, Jones would definitely get an A. The contents of the report were excellent, too. Jones even found some video footage in the local TV news morgues. He also prepared a streamlined statement of facts and chronology.

Ben took out his pencil and made a few crucial additions to the chronology based on the information he had gathered during the past few days. It raised many questions, but provided very few answers.

On his way out, Ben bumped into Loving. “How’s the investigation going?”

“Not so well, Skipper. I’ve been interviewing all the potential witnesses Jones and Christina came up with: Or trying, anyway. They’re not very cooperative.”

“Anyone know anything?”

“Not so far. Well, one gal I thought knew something, but she refused to talk to me.”

“Keep working on her. And all the others.”

Loving pounded his meaty fists together. “You want I should bust some heads?”

“Uh, no. Not at me moment. But I would appreciate it if you could do some checking on a guy named Ronald Pearson.” Ben quickly outlined what he knew about Pearson. “I thought maybe you could talk to some of your buddies who are engaged from time to time in, um, less-than-legal occupations.”

“You mean crooks.”

“Well, yes. See if any of them know anything about drug running from Peru. And see if anyone knows what Pearson might be doing with members of a North Side street gang.”

Loving’s eyes moved closer together. “Them gangs are bad news, Skipper. If you’re messin’ with them, I better stick close to ya. I wouldn’t want nothin’ to happen.”

Ben smiled. Everyone should have a two-hundred-and-fifty-pounder who idolized him. “I’ll be all right, Loving. See what you can find out. If you turn up anything, I want to know immediately.”

Ben found Mike at his desk at Central Division headquarters. He was hunched over a tall stack of reports, a toothpick jutting out of his mouth, a hand pressed against his forehead, and the other fist crumpling an unwanted piece of information.

“How goes it?” Ben ventured.

“Like hell,” Mike said. “I got so many—” He stopped abruptly. “Where have you been?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your face is red.”

“I don’t quite follow.”

“You’ve been out in the sun!”

“Oh, right. Got some exercise yesterday.”

“You? I thought the only exercise you got was walking up the stairs to your apartment.”

“I’m broadening my horizons.”

“Uh-huh.” Mike leaned back in his chair. “What did you do, play a fever-pitched round of croquet?”

“Golf, actually.”

Mike looked astonished. “You? Golf?”

“It’s not that demanding a sport …”

“Yes, but it requires you to be outside. To get hot. Sweaty even.”

“For your information, I happen to like the outdoors.”

Mike chuckled. “I remember Julia telling me about how when you were a little kid your parents had to lock you out of the house to get you to play outside. And even then you’d just stand by the door wailing to be let back in.”

“That was a long time ago. I’m not quite the wimp you make me out to be.”

Mike continued strolling down Memory Lane. “And I remember hearing about that time Julia put fake vomit on one of your comic books. Said you cried for hours. Even after she showed you it was fake.”

Ben coughed. “I’ve always taken good care of my books. …”

“And the time she showed you a squished pearl tomato and told you it was the neighbor’s dog’s eyeball.”

“I still don’t find that remotely humorous—”

Mike slapped his knee. “And the time she told you the scratches would come off your records if you baked them in the oven—”

“Look, could we talk about the case?”

Mike grinned. “Whatever you say, kemo sabe.”

“Thanks loads. Have you heard anything new about the Leeman Hayes prosecution?”

“Well, of course, I’m not officially involved in that case. But it’s just possible I accidentally overheard Bullock talking too loudly for his own good while we were in the cafeteria line.”

“Accidentally overheard what?”

“Bullock bragging that he took over the case and was calling in all his markers to win it.”

“Great. Just what I wanted to hear.”

“You’d better look out for him, Ben. He’s got a lot of markers to call, and he knows how to make them count, too.”

“I’ll stay on my toes. Anything more specific?”

“Heard he’s planning a surprise witness.”

“That would explain why he’s delaying giving me a witness list. Any idea who the witness is?”

“ ’Fraid not.”

“Or what the witness will say?”

“Not really. But I did see a form in the main office that indicated Bullock was pulling a lot of old police reports. Does your man have a record?”

“I don’t think so.” With a sudden frisson of horror, Ben realized he hadn’t thought to check. “I’ll make sure.”

“Do that.”

“Anything else?”

“Sorry. The cafeteria line moves pretty fast.”

Ben nodded. “Oh well. Appreciate the help. Still looking for that child molester?”

“When I can. According to Chief Blackwell, now I’m also supposed to be investigating the youth-gang problem.”

Ben’s ears tingled. “Youth gangs? You?”

“What, did you think I just push paper all day long?”

“No, but I thought you occasionally investigated homicides. …”

“Unfortunately, there have been several gang-related homicides. And now that I’m division supervisor, the whole mess gets laid at my feet. Blackwell says we have to make a concerted effort to confront these threats to the family unit. God knows there’s never been a worse time in history to try to raise a family than now.”

Ben decided he could spare a few more minutes for this chat. He pulled a chair up to Mike’s desk. “How did this youth-gang business get started, anyway?”

“You mean historically? Adult gangs have been around since the dawn of civilization. And they still are. What’s the mob, after all, but a great big gang for grown-ups? People learned long ago that there’s strength in numbers. And the people most likely to learn that lesson are the people who have no power individually. The poor. Ethnic minorities.”

“And children.”

“Too true. It wasn’t until after World War Two, though, that the current gang movement began. Gangs formed mostly along ethnic and racial lines, though not always. It wasn’t a bad idea in the abstract—it gave young people a sense of identity. A sense of power. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way some of them decided to try to better their situation via crime. And violence.”

“This is fascinating, Mike, but what I really meant was how did it get started in Tulsa?”

“Well, we’re not the worst off by a long shot, but we’ve got ’em. You know, in Chicago there are forty known street gangs with over twenty-eight thousand members. I know of four gangs in Tulsa, with a couple hundred members. Still, it’s not anything to laugh about.”

“Who runs these gangs?”

“Usually some older, more experienced man acts as the fearless leader and provides direction. Provides arms. Organizes their activities.”

“A member of the same ethnic minority?”

“Not necessarily. It’s not unknown for a white man to run a black gang, or a black man to run a Hispanic gang. If they can earn the gang members’ trust and provide them a means of scoring some big bucks—hey, why not?”

“Any special qualifications for the job?”

“The main thing the leader needs is the cash to get the operation, whatever it is, running.”

“So we’re looking for a wealthy man,” Ben said.

“That’s often the case. Got anyone in mind?”

A wealthy man with known connections to youth gangs, Ben thought. A man who might have a need for many hands reaching into the poorest parts of the city.

Hands to distribute foreign-import drugs.

“I might,” Ben answered. “Let me do some more checking.”

“If you say so. I’d like to put one of these ganglord sons of bitches behind bars.”

Ben took his legal pad out of his briefcase and quickly sketched a design. “I saw a kid the other day in what looked like a red-and-black jacket. Emblem was a swastika inside a heart.”

“Fifteenth Street Demons,” Mike explained. “Did he have a weird circular pattern on the front of his jacket? And a big capital D?”

“Yeah.”

“Definitely a Demon. They’re the worst in the city. By far.”

And one of them was dating Joni. “What have they been up to?”

“You remember all those drive-by shootings last month?”

Ben nodded.

“We think they were behind it. We can’t prove it, but that’s what we think. We’ve also linked them to burglaries and drug pushing at city schools. Even grade schools.”

“Foreign drugs?”

“Mostly, yeah. Except for the pot—Oklahoma’s number-one cash crop. Problem is, their ace rivals, the Cobras, have traditionally controlled the North Side drug traffic, and they’re not too keen on competition. If we don’t cut off the Demons’ supply soon, there’s gonna be a hit. And some kids are gonna die.”

“How old are these gang members?”

“It varies. Sixteen to twenty, typically. But I’ve seen them as young as ten.”

“Ten! You must be joking.”

“Nope. Gangs actively seek out and recruit kids at ten and eleven. They perform an important function.”

“I hate to ask, but—what is it?”

“You’re the amateur sleuth, Ben. Can’t you figure it out? If the ten-year-olds get caught, they’ll be treated less severely by the cops and the courts than teenagers would be, and much less severely than adults would be. When the gangs go out on raids or whatever, they often give the drugs or the guns to the ten-year-olds, to protect the leaders and the older guys from arrest.”

“So the kid gets picked up on a serious felony charge when he’s ten. What a swell way to start your life. That’s really disgusting.”

“You don’t have to tell me, pal. I’ve been tearing my hair out over this for weeks, since that big rumble on Brady left three teenagers dead on the pavement.”

The phone rang. Mike stepped away and took the call. There was a long silence.

“Damn.” More time passed. Mike scribbled an address on his notepad. “Damn, damn, damn.”

After he hung up the phone, Ben asked, “Who was that?”

“Switchboard. A little kid’s been grabbed by some unidentified man. Spotted driving away in a gray sedan, couldn’t get the license-plate number. I’m out of here.” He grabbed his overcoat. ‘

“Is this related to the other child-molestation cases?” Ben asked.

“Possibly. All I know for now is that some superrich kid has been nabbed. Utica Hills type. Name’s Rutherford.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “Abie Rutherford? Parents named Harold and Rachel?”

Mike checked his notes. “That’s right. You know them?”

Ben grabbed his briefcase. “I’m coming with you.”