Silver Justice

Chapter 14

Rodney Everin sauntered down the sidewalk in Orange, New Jersey, carrying a plastic bag containing a late lunch — a six pack of beer and a sandwich from the corner market. The balmy afternoon sunshine warmed his rugged features as he meandered back from the store. The hangover from the prior night’s festivities was a dull pounding in his frontal lobes — he was hoping the first or second of the frosty tall boys would dampen the worst of it. Even sleeping till one in the afternoon hadn’t blunted the throbbing. But a little hair of the biting dog worked every time.

He passed a pair of women standing outside a beauty salon, smoking, and nodded at them with a smirk, taking care to flex his considerable upper body muscles so they could appreciate his physique.

“Yo. Howsa bout you and me take a load off and have a little drink?” he shot out at both of them. “Someplace cool and private?”

“Drop dead, lowlife,” the little brunette suggested before returning to her conversation with the blonde about how she was going to kill someone named Tanya if she came anywhere near her again.

“You’ll be begging for it come Friday night, baby,” he hurled back, grabbing his crotch with his free hand.

The blonde made a gesture with her little finger, and the two cosmetologists cackled with glee.

“Dykes,” he muttered and then continued on his way. Plenty more where that came from.

As he approached his apartment block, he spied a government sedan with a giveaway whip antenna parked in front. His alcohol-ravaged synapses shrieked a warning as he slowed momentarily, trying to assess the situation. A pair of serious-looking men in suits were descending the stairs from the front entrance, surveying the street. One of them held a sheet of paper in his hand with a series of photographs on it — a mug shot and a driver’s license scan.

Rodney felt a tingle of apprehension in his gut. Instead of making the turn towards his place, he kept on walking, picking up the pace without seeming obvious.

As he reached the far end of the block, a voice behind him called out, “Rodney Everin. Stop. We need to talk to you.”

He kept moving, ignoring the man, hoping they’d think they’d gotten the wrong guy.

“Rodney. FBI. Stop where you are.”

That was all he needed to hear. Feds at his digs. Probably something to do with the deal he’d been trying to set up, to get a half-kilo of meth fronted to him so he could sell to his bar buddies. That must have triggered something — maybe the whole thing was some kind of sting, where he was being set up.

He debated stopping as instructed then thought about the marijuana in his pants pocket and the quarter gram of meth next to it — if they searched him, he would be going back to prison, no mistake, even if he hadn’t done anything on the half-kilo yet. The switchblade he carried for self-protection would be icing on the cake.

He made his decision and bolted, rounding the corner and sprinting across the street. If he could make it to the second block from the park, he could lose them — or at least jettison the dope so they’d come up empty on a search. Then all they’d have was his word against whoever’s. He hadn’t done anything yet, so wasn’t guilty of anything but being stupid or drunk when he was talking to the dealer. There was no law against being a drunken idiot that he knew of.

The man who’d called after him raced for the car, and his partner took off in pursuit at a run — he’d been no mean athlete in college and even after seven years he could keep up with the best.

Rodney swung around another corner and tossed his sack into a garbage can. The weight wasn’t worth the ten bucks the beer and sandwich represented. He fished in his pocket for the dope as he ran and palmed the little baggie as he poured on the speed. Startled pedestrians gave him a wide berth, the sound of his work boots thumping against the pavement all the warning they needed. Nobody wanted to get involved in something they didn’t understand, and an adult male doing the four-minute mile down the sidewalk was unusual enough to warrant caution.

“Rodney!”

The voice behind him sounded like it was a hundred yards back. He hadn’t seen his pursuer when he’d ditched the beer, but there was no mistaking him now. He still needed to lose the drugs, though, and the switchblade. He’d be sad to see the knife go — they were pricey these days, even for the crap blades from Mexico. Maybe he could recover it later.

A group of teens on a stoop cheered him on as he ran past them, whooping in delight at this unexpected entertainment on an otherwise boring day. One took up the pursuit on his skateboard for a few short yards then thought better of it when he heard the agent pounding down the sidewalk behind him.

He collided with a couple of metal garbage cans, spilling the contents into the gutter as he stumbled through the trash and recovered his footing. He ventured a glance over his shoulder and saw that the fed was gaining. Seeing his pursuer bearing down on him, he darted into the street, trying to time the traffic so he could put some distance between himself and the agent.

He almost made it.

The Dodge Ram crew cab slammed into him, flipping him into the air. He struck the pavement with a wet thunk, bouncing like a ragdoll for a few yards before rolling to a halt. A Chrysler screeched to a stop a few inches from his head, and the last thing he registered was the warm wet flow of blood streaming down his nose onto the pavement.

“What do you mean, he ran?” Silver demanded.

“Took off like a scared rabbit when he saw us. We advised him that we were FBI and demanded that he stop, but he just tore away like we were shooting at him,” the voice on the phone reported.

“This was supposed to be an informational interview. Low pressure.”

“I know. But he had a different idea.”

“Which hospital did they take him to?”

“University. He should be there by now. We’re on our way over, as soon as we get finished with the local cops. They’re dragging their feet on filling out the reports. You know how they like to bust our chops.”

“How badly was he hurt?” Silver asked.

“Pretty badly. The paramedics gave him a fifty-fifty chance. He hit the road hard. Man against truck doesn’t usually wind up with the man winning. Stupid bastard.”

“And you have no idea why he ran?”

“You mean other than he was an unemployed ex-con with no visible means of support who could still afford a little weed and some methamphetamines? My guess is that he was up to something and thought we’d caught him. Or he was afraid we’d take him in and find the dope and he’d back in lockup. And it could be he’s our killer — we’ll need to get a warrant for his place and search it, see if we can find anything incriminating.”

“Probable cause is going to be tough,” Silver said, “but I’ll see what I can swing.”

“He did run from us.”

“Yeah, but you know as well as I do that a decent lawyer could argue that, given his history, he panicked. Acting guilty isn’t the same as being guilty — something about reasonable doubt and presumption of innocence. But I’ll do what I can. Let me call over to the hospital and see what I can find out.”

“Okay. Soon as we can break loose from here, we’ll be there.”

“10-4.” Silver terminated the call, then pulled up a number on her computer and dialed it. After a few minutes of being shunted from person to person, she got the emergency room nurse, who was willing to take a few moments out from her busy schedule to give her an update.

“We just wheeled him into radiology for a CT, and then he’s going straight to the OR. Looks like massive intracranial bleeding — his pupils were non-responsive when he came in. Legs are both broken, his hip, most of his ribs…arms have compound fractures…I don’t think he’s going to be doing any triathlons any time soon.”

“Sounds like he’s lucky to be alive.”

“I don’t know that I’d use the word lucky. But he’s still breathing.”

“I know it’s probably a stupid question, but I’ll ask anyway. What are the chances that he pulls through and regains consciousness?”

“Sweetheart, I have three lottery tickets in my purse for the next big one, and I’d guess my chances of quitting this job and living in the South of France next month are better. But I never said that. Only a doctor can answer that question in an official capacity.”

“I completely understand. Listen, I appreciate it. My men will be there shortly. I’d really like it if you could take out a minute and fill them in. Could I ask you to do that?”

“No problem. I’ll just look for the G-men in the lobby. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot among this bunch.”

Silver hung up and cursed her luck. This had gone from routine to disastrous in nothing flat. And they didn’t even know if the victim was their man. The odds were far greater that this was just an ugly confluence of events and the killer was still out there planning his next murder.

The worst part was they might never know. If the killings stopped abruptly, but they found no evidence Rodney was the serial…she didn’t even want to go down that road.

She balked at the prospect of having to explain to Brett what had happened, then decided to get it over with and made her way to his office. That was some hunch she’d had. So far, at least one man down, possibly a vegetable — or dead — and nothing to show for it.

~ ~ ~

The big Chevrolet sedan pulled up to the curb outside the shabby home in Brooklyn. A man and woman got out, their business suits incongruent with the neighborhood. They checked the address and ascended the stairs to the small porch after doing a quick scan of the quiet street. The woman punched the doorbell, and they waited for someone to answer.

A cautious voice sounded from behind the weathered door. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Jarvis?” the woman asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, sir.”

There was a pause from inside.

“FBI? Little late for April Fool’s Day, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Jarvis.”

More silence.

“Lemme see your badges. Hold them up to the peephole.”

The two agents removed slim leather wallets, doing as asked. After thirty seconds the door swung open four inches, a security chain holding it in place. Piercing blue eyes studied the pair.

“What does the FBI want with me?” Howard grumbled, distrust evident in his expression.

“We would like to ask you a few questions, sir.”

“About?”

“The fire that took your wife’s life.”

“What? Three years after the fact? Little late, aren’t you? And why federal interest?”

“Sir, would it be possible to come inside?” the female agent asked.

“All due respect, no, I don’t really want federal agents in my house.”

“Well, we need to talk to you.”

The eyes pored over them both.

“Shit. All right. Give me a second. I’m afraid I’m not exactly set up for visitors. The maid and butler quit last week, and it’s been hard keeping the place shipshape since then…”

The door slammed, and they heard the sound of the chain being fiddled with. It swung open again, and they were face to face with their subject. Five ten, medium-length brown hair going to gray, mustache, wearing a long-sleeved blue polo shirt and loose jeans.

He motioned for the agents to come in and turned, moving through the narrow hall to the living room, the scarred hardwood floor creaking under his weight.

“Close the door behind you. Though I’m guessing I’ll be safe from the local thieves if you two are here. You want some water or coffee? I’m afraid I don’t have much else.”

“No, sir, thank you. We’d just like to ask a few questions,” the female agent said.

“Come on, then, and take a seat.” He gestured to a beaten couch, sagging in the middle.

“Thanks.” They sat down, and he lowered himself into a cracking La-Z-Boy.

“So to what do I owe the honor of two genuine FBI agents visiting with me in beautiful Brooklyn? You say you want to talk about the fire? What do you want to know that isn’t in the reports? And why now?”

The male agent leaned forward. “Mr. Jarvis-”

“Please. Call me Howard.”

“Howard. I’m Agent Border and this is Agent Torres. We’re just following up on some routine information and wanted to hear about the fire first hand.” He cocked his head in the direction of the female agent and placed a small recorder on the coffee table. “Do you mind if I record this? Makes it way easier than trying to take notes.”

“Routine information?” Howard seemed relaxed, but curious, and somewhat puzzled. He waved an indifferent hand at the small device. “Sure. Go ahead. I’ve already been through this so many times…”

Border depressed the record button and murmured into the condenser microphone. “April nineteenth, three p.m., interview with Howard Jarvis.” He looked up, returning to Howard. “Yes. I can appreciate that. It was a terrible tragedy. Can you tell us what happened, in your own words?”

“My wife was sick, on a lot of meds. We ran into some financial difficulty when the markets crashed and wound up losing the house to the bank. Couldn’t afford it — that happens a lot these days. Anyway, she was stubborn as a mule and fought me every step of the way on preparing to move somewhere else. I had no idea what she was planning. I was in New York for the day, trying to line up somewhere for us to live with my contacts. When I got back to the house, it was almost completely gutted, and the firefighters were battling the blaze, trying to put it out. Long story short, she didn’t want to lose her house and decided that if she couldn’t live there, then nobody could. We’d had it for twenty-eight years. It wasn’t the Taj Mahal, but it was our place, and she loved it.”

“Yes. Well, what about the note?” Agent Torres asked softly.

“That’s how we knew what happened. She’d dropped me off at the station so I could take the train into town. I saw a piece of paper folded on the dashboard, so while the firemen were trying to put out the fire, I opened the car and got it. You already know what it said… You have to understand. She wasn’t rational, and the stress from our changing circumstances pushed her over the edge. I blame the medication. She was on everything you could think of for her problems.”

“I understand. And your daughter…”

“That day was a tragedy all around. You know about her. It’s in all the reports. Insurance, police, fire…”

The agents exchanged glances, and the woman began asking the questions.

“Mist- Howard. This may seem like an odd series of questions, but bear with us. Can you tell where you were three nights ago?”

“Huh? Three nights ago?”

“That’s right.”

The distrustful look returned to Howard’s face. “What is this?”

“Please. Just answer the question.”

“Why? Am I a suspect or something? I’ve seen enough TV to know that when the law shows up asking questions about where you were that doesn’t go anywhere good.”

“No, sir, you’re not a suspect. We’ve been assigned to determine your whereabouts because of a similar fire. That’s all. It’s really nothing more than a checklist interview so we can mark you as spoken to.” Torres sounded reasonable and friendly, as she had been trained to be during these sorts of interrogations.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“If you would like one, of course, you can get one, but it might be easier to just tell us what we need to know so we can get this over with and get out of your hair. Not that we aren’t enjoying the tour of Brooklyn, mind you,” she said with a smile.

“Hmm. Three nights ago I was doing what I do every night. I was reading until maybe nine thirty and then went to sleep. I didn’t get any invitations to Studio 54 that night, I’m pretty sure.”

“Can anyone confirm you were here?”

“What, are you for real? No, my night-time reading isn’t a spectator sport. I’m afraid that as fascinating as it sounds there isn’t a big market for ringside seats for me in my PJs.”

“No phone calls? No visitors?”

“Ha. Look around you. Does it seem like I do a lot of entertaining?”

Torres smiled again. “And no calls?”

“I haven’t had a phone call in a week. And I think that one was a bill collector.”

Agent Border took up the routine. “What about two weeks ago? The night of April sixth?” he asked.

“The sixth? How the hell would I know? Probably the same. I spend every night the same way. Not a lot of variation once you get to a certain age.”

“Would it be fair to say that you can’t account for your whereabouts?” Border wasn’t nearly as friendly as Torres. His tone was more aggressive.

“I think it’s about time to shut this down unless you tell me what the hell this is all about. I don’t see what my reading schedule has to do with the fire. I’m serious. Spill the beans or you can pack up and this discussion is at an end.”

The agents exchanged glances.

“We’re investigating some episodes that we can’t go into detail about. But one is similar to your fire, so we’re running down every lead, no matter how much of a longshot,” Torres said, trying to salvage the good rapport she’d built.

“Episodes. Can’t go into detail. Agents, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m going to terminate this. You come into my house on the pretense of talking about the fire that killed my family and then start giving me the fifth degree about something you can’t even talk about? No, thank you. This is still a free country, and I’ve been more than civil. Please take your good cop, bad cop routine and go back wherever you came from…” Howard began coughing, and Torres’ eyes roved over the interior of the small row house, stopping when they got to the kitchen. A group of pill bottles sat on the counter, their distinctive prescription labels unmistakable.

“We’re sorry, Howard. We didn’t mean to upset you. I appreciate your taking the time to meet with us and answer our questions. Of course we’ll leave — we meant you no disrespect. If anything else comes up, we’ll call first and ask you to come into the office. But I think it’s unlikely we’ll need to,” Torres said.

The pair rose to their feet while Howard fought to recover from the coughing fit. Border retrieved the recorder and punched it off before returning it to his pocket.

“We’ll just see our way out, sir,” Torres said apologetically as they made their way to the front door.

“I still don’t understand what this is all about.”

“Don’t worry. It’s strictly routine, as I said. Again, sorry to disturb you.” Torres opened the door, and they walked out onto the porch.

Howard stood and followed them to the door, closing it behind them. They heard the locks being re-engaged and slowly descended the stairs.

Once they were in the car, Torres turned to Border. “What do you think?”

Border shook his head. “Are you serious? Come on. The guy sounds like he’s on his last legs.”

“Yeah. A waste of time. Unless we’re thinking that we’ve got a geriatric killer.”

“I don’t think any of the victims were gummed to death.”

“Or beaten with a cane,” Torres added.

“Still, he was scrappy there towards the end.”

They got serious.

“So are we in agreement?” Border asked. “Dead end?”

“They don’t get much deader, do they?”

Howard watched through his curtains as the unmarked car pulled away from the curb, his mind racing. The coughing had the intended result — they couldn’t get out fast enough. But he had a problem. Somehow they had connected the fire with the one in Connecticut — an almost impossible logical leap, and completely unexpected. He knew they were fishing, but now that they had him on the radar, his internal alarms were going off at full roar.

How had they made him? He’d considered the similarities between the fires as a risk, but discarded it as a virtually impossible logical leap. One in ten million.

And yet here he was, being visited by the FBI.

He drew a few deep breaths and considered his next step.

Within two weeks none of this would matter, but in the meantime, this sort of unforeseen wrinkle could prove disastrous.

His plans were contingent upon his being able to move around in an unfettered manner. But if the FBI continued connecting dots, they would probably initiate surveillance, which would cripple his ability to execute his remaining targets. Then again, there was nothing to tie him to the crimes. He’d been very careful. If they really knew anything, they wouldn’t have sent two young agents who were clearly just going through the motions. That meant he was probably a reasonable way from warrants and searches.

But he couldn’t be complacent — the visit had told him all he needed to know. He would need to bring his schedule forward now — there was no telling how much they had pieced together.

Howard fought back the creeping sense of panic that the visit had engendered and struggled to slow his racing thoughts. He needed to somehow stop any investigation. Derail it for just another ten days or so — and if he picked up the pace, no more than a week on the outside. Then it would be all over.

He sat down at his dining room table and began considering options. How could he throw the FBI off the scent long enough to finish his job? Maybe some red herrings to the press? Or possibly a distraction of some kind? Something that would shift the task force’s attention in the wrong direction?

As he mulled over his options, his eyes drifted to his computer flickering in his bedroom. A flicker of an idea occurred to him, and Howard went in and navigated to a familiar website. He quickly skimmed through the pages and came to the most recent Herald article. Howard read it carefully, taking notes, and a possibility occurred to him.

He pulled up another site and began the research required to see what would be feasible.

Howard peered at his watch and made a mental note, then switched to another website and typed in the requested information. Scouring the reams of data that spat forth, he finally leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face, peering at the final lines of the report. It would seem there was a chink in the Bureau’s armor. It wouldn’t be easy and would require considerable luck, but if he was successful, it would accomplish everything he needed, and then some.

He’d have to call in sick to his part-time job — an off-the-books cash affair he’d been working for a year — so he could do some necessary surveillance. And much of his research could be done online, he knew. There was so much data in the public domain — it was scary once you knew just how much. He’d become somewhat of an expert on it all over the last few years, his nimble engineer’s mind eagerly embracing the nuances of the technology.

After fifteen more minutes, he pushed back from the table and powered down the system. He’d found what he was looking for. Now he would need to do the hard part.

And he still needed to finish his preparations for his sixth victim. That was more urgent than ever. Once he was eliminated, it was all downhill.

Howard hummed to himself as he packed a duffel bag with a variety of odds and ends — rope, hardware, flashlights, a notebook computer and charger, a burner cell phone, a slim Jim and some other tools useful for liberating a car. Once finished, he looked around the drab little bedroom he had called home since the fire, then made his way to the front door, ready to pack the gear in his car.

He wouldn’t miss his life in the shabby little dwelling — the neighborhood was dangerous, the place was little better than slum housing, and there was no insulation, so in the winter he froze, and in the summer it was sweltering. But he paid bargain rent, which in his circumstances was its biggest appeal.

He only needed a little more time. A matter of days, if he hurried and the stars aligned. That was the story of his life — always needing just a little more time.

But the FBI visit signaled that for Howard time was running out.

The engine creaked over with a groan. He put the transmission into gear and pulled off to go car hunting.

He’d have to work fast.

Very fast.