Purge the Evil Chaps 17 - 25

8/14/2019 Purge the Evil Chaps 17 - 25

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PURGE THE EVIL

a novel by Bill Dunn


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Chapter 17

Friday, November 12th, 10:45 a.m.

Victor Strasser sat in the dimly lit living room of his sisters home. All the blinds

were closed tightly so it was impossible to tell if it was night or day outside. Victor gazed

lustfully at flickering images on a computer screen. If the authorities knew what he was

doing at that moment, he would be back in the state prison by nightfall. Victor was well

aware if this, but he didnt care. He could not help himself. He was drawn to child

pornography websites like a moth to a flame.

Victor often wondered why so many people hated him so much. Yes, he had done

something very bad many years ago, when he got carried away one night and molested a

10-year-old girl. But he had pled guilty to that crime and spent 22 years behind bars. He

paid his price to society. Since then the only so-called nasty behavior he engaged in

occurred mostly in his mind or in solitude behind closed doors. Why couldnt everyone

just leave him alone, he often thought.

When Victor finished serving out his sentence about a year ago, he was amazed at

the uproar. His sister had reluctantly agreed to let him live with her in an upscale


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by the probation arrangement, and as her resentment grew, she had as little interaction as

possible with her pariah brother.

Although Victors secret was safe from his sister, he knew a computer expert

could examine the computers hard drive and easily uncover his activity. However, he

decided it was worth the risk, and hoped that he never gave law enforcement officials any

reason to become suspicious and seize the computer.

As Victor clicked from image to image, trying to find something that would

arouse him, his train of thought was interrupted by a loud knock on the kitchen door at

the back of the house. Flustered, Victor scrambled to turn off the computers monitor. He

sat still in the dark room hoping the visitor would go away. But the knocking continued.

Finally, Victor got up, closed up the front of his dingy bathrobe around his ample belly,

and went to answer the door. As he walked into the kitchen, the daylight made him

squint. He moved a small curtain with his hand and peered through one of the window

panes in the top half of the kitchen door. Standing on the doorstep was a man wearing a

blue jumpsuit with a Comcast patch on the left breast. A photo I.D. was clipped

sideways to the pocket below the patch. The man had a baseball cap on his head, a small

tool box in one hand, and a clipboard in the other.

Victor unlocked the kitchen door and pulled it open about six inches, leaving the

screen door closed and locked. What do you want? he said nervously.

Im with the cable company, sir, Tom Wilkins said. Im here to do the

upgrade. Is Ms. Strasser in?

No, shes at work, Victor replied. What upgrade are you talking about?


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Ms. Strasser ordered our special upgrade package, on sale this month, Wilkins

said, easily slipping into his salesman tone and cadence. We offer cable, phones, and

high-speed Internet, all for one low price. I have an eleven oclock appointment.

Well, shes not here, Victor said. Come back some other time.

Are you sure? Wilkins asked. When she called the other day to make the

appointment, she sounded in a hurry.

Thats Marlene all right, Victor thought.Always wants everything right now. He

hesitated, then said, I dunno. I mean, she didnt say anything to me about it. I dont

know if I can let you in.

OK, but if I cant do it now, we wont be able to reschedule the appointment for

at least another two weeks. I dont know if shell be very happy about that.

No, she sure wont, Victor mumbled under his breath. Shes never happy. He

slowly pulled the wooden door open and reached out and unlocked the screen door.

How long will this take? he asked.

Oh, itll be quick. Just a few minutes, Wilkins said as he entered the house.

Thanks for letting me in. So where is the main cable box?

In the living room. This way, Victor said. He walked through the kitchen

toward the hallway, and then into the living room. Wilkins followed. Entering the dark

living room, Victor fumbled with a lamp on an end table, and finally turned it on. Wilkins

glanced around the room and noted approvingly that all the blinds were shut.

Victor motioned toward a large flat-screen television sitting on top of a low book

shelf. The cable stuff should be right behind it, I think, he said.


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OK, good, Wilkins said. He placed the clipboard on the shelf next to the TV

and then put the tool box down on top of the clipboard. He flipped the latch on the tool

box. I just need my Philips screwdriver, he said as he reached in with his right hand.

A moment later, Tom Wilkins pulled his hand out of the tool box and pivoted his

entire body to the right, facing Victor. He raised his arm and pointed a blue steel .38

caliber, short-barrel revolver directly at the bridge of Victors nose. Victor stood

motionless, his mind unable to comprehend the unexpected image before him. His

surprised eyes were slightly crossed, trying to focus on the gun barrel no more than six

inches away. The last thought Victor Strasser had on earth was, Thats not a Philips

screwdriver

A deafening roar spewed from the gun as Wilkins pulled the trigger. The slug tore

a perfectly round hole in Victors pudgy forehead, slightly above eyebrow level. He fell

backward onto the carpeted floor with a thump. His eyes remained surprised and slightly

crossed, and now pointed up at the ceiling.

Wilkins lowered his right arm and took a deep breath. Whoa, he said softly as

the boom of the gun echoed in his ears. After a momentary pause, he turned back toward

the tool box and set the revolver inside. He pulled two rubber gloves out of the box and

quickly put them on. Then he took a small hammer and a razor knife out of the box and

hurried into the kitchen. At the back door, Wilkins opened the wooden door and swung it

out of the way. He exposed the blade of the razor knife and sliced a hole in the screen

near the door latch. Then he reached in the pocket of his blue jumpsuit and pulled out a

small rag. He opened the screen door, reached around, and used the rag to wipe down the

handle, the only surface on which he might have left a fingerprint.


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Wilkins stepped back into the kitchen and turned toward the open wooden door.

He used the hammer to smash a hole in one of the small panes of glass. He closed the

door and used his foot to slide the broken pieces of glass closer to the door, where they

presumably wouldve landed if the glass had been smashed from the back steps.

Wilkins hurried back into the living room and placed the hammer and razor knife

into the tool box. In a matter of a few minutes, he scampered from room to room

throughout the house, yanking out bureau drawers and generally making a mess of things.

He stuffed a handful of costume jewelry and spare change into his pocket.

Satisfied the house now appeared as if it had been targeted by robbers, Tom

Wilkins gathered up the tool box and clipboard, took one last look at Victorwhose

surprised eyes still were fixed upward, looking out between rivulets of blood trickling

down his faceturned off the lamp on the end table, and silently slipped out the back

door.

Wilkins walked around to the side of the house. He paused to see if any people or

cars were in the area. The wooded, secluded street was as silent as it had been when he

arrived 20 minutes earlier. He continued walking and turned right when he reached the

end of the driveway. A Comcast van was parked about 200 feet down the road, in front of

a neighboring house, a house which Capt. Bradford knew was unoccupied. Wilkins

opened the sliding door on the right side of the van and climbed in. He quickly peeled off

the blue jumpsuit and shoved it into a black trash bag. He slid the door closed from the

inside, then squeezed into the drivers seat. Firing up the engine, he carefully drove away

and headed back toward his car dealership.


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Oh, pretty good, Mr. Wilkins, the young man replied. A real busy day today,

he added shaking his head, indicating it would be a scramble to get everything done by 5

p.m.

Well, keep up the good work, Wilkins said encouragingly. By the way, Duane,

when you get a chance, call the Comcast office. Tell them the brake job is done. They can

pick up their van anytime.

OK sure, boss, Duane said. He watched his boss exit the service area and head

for the offices. Duane Waller admired Tom Wilkins and felt extremely grateful toward

him. Four years earlier Duane met his future employer at the Faith Cathedral. At the time

both men were struggling with inner demons: Tom with booze and prostitutes and

gambling; Duane with drugs and a crushing lack of self-esteem. With the encouragement

of Rev. Morton and other members of the congregation, both men were able to conquer

their addictions, and with a renewed and vibrant faith in God, each man turned his life

around.

About six months after attending the same weekly 12-step recovery meetings at

the Cathedral, Tom offered Duane a job in the service department. At first Duane was

just a minimum wage flunky, running errands and assisting the mechanics. But soon

afterward, his high intelligence combined with a new-found work ethic, made Duane a

very dependable and valuable employee. He quickly moved up the ladder of

responsibility and income, and less than two years after coming to work at Wilkins Ford-

Nissan, at the ripe old age of 31, Tom proudly selected Duane to be the new service

manager.


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At first, the other employees resented Duane Waller. They thought he was too

young and inexperienced to be the service manager, and grumbled that he got the job

only because he was one of Tom Wilkins fellow Jesus freaks. But within a few months

Duanes energy and attention to detail finally won over most of his critics. Everyone

except a few resentful coworkers agreed he was doing a great job. In addition to the long

hours he put in at the dealership, Duane also found time to volunteer at the Faith

Cathedral. He often joined in with groups that periodically protested in front of abortion

clinics or adult bookstores. And having taken his cue from Tom Wilkins and Wilkins

friend Pit Bull Peterson, Duane wasnt shy about expressing his distain for the lax

criminal justice system and the many lawbreakers who walked the streets with impunity.

Tom Wilkins entered his office and shut the door behind him. He plopped into the

large chair behind his desk and let out an audible sigh. Man, that was awesome, he

whispered, envisioning Victor Strassers lifeless body staring up at the ceiling. I cant

wait for my turn to do it again. He could feel the adrenaline surging through his body.

Unlike Rev. Morton, it was not a fearful, panicky, sweat-inducing adrenaline surge. For

Tom Wilkins, his surge was filled with feelings of power and purpose. He had carried out

his mission flawlessly, and now he basked in his victory.

The phone on Toms desk indicated he had nine voice messages waiting. He

didnt care about any of those calls at the moment. Instead, he grabbed the phone and

dialed Capt. Bradfords cell number.

Yeah, its me, Wilkins said. All set. Its done. No problem.


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He listened for a moment, then said, Yeah, I told you, no problem. I did

everything exactly as we planned, and there wasnt a soul around. Nope, nobody saw me.

OK, Ill see you tonight.

Capt. Bradford knew there would be no instantaneous 9-1-1 call, as was the case

with Jitterbug Rivera. If everything went as planned, the emergency call would not come

in until around 6 p.m., when Marlene Strasser arrived home to find her brothers dead

body. Most likely, after getting over the initial shock, Marlene would conclude that

someone had just done her a huge favor.

Wilkins hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. A wave of satisfaction

and pride swept over him. We are really doing something good, he thought. We are

ridding the community of vermin, of immoral parasites. We are slowly but surely making

this town safe again for normal, law-abiding citizens. Yeah, ol G.W. was right, if the

legal system wont do its job, then we have to it for them. We have to purge the evil from

among us.

Tom Wilkins jumped up from his chair and clapped his hands joyfully. What to

do now, he wondered. Get some coffee? No, he was too wired for that right now. He

wished it were already evening so he could celebrate his victory with the other three men.

For a moment, he felt a strong urge to have a celebratory drink, but instantly the scolding

face of Rev. Morton popped into his head. He murmured with a chuckle, Dont worry,

G.W., Im not gonna start drinking again.

Finally he decided the only useful thing he could do for the time being was go

back to running his car dealership. He sat down and began to listen to his voice messages.


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Chapter 19

Friday, November 12th, 6:05 p.m.

Marlene Strasser steered her Audi into the driveway of her home. It had been a

stressful day at the office, and all she wanted to do at this point was take the shoes off her

aching feet, pour herself a large glass of wine, and think about what she might do for fun

on Saturday. Anything would be fun, she thought, as long as it was something far away

from her house and far away from her sex-offending pervert of a brother.

As she walked in the dark toward the back door, she noticed that no lights were

on in the house.Hes probably sleeping, she thought with disgust, enviously wishing she

had the luxury to nap whenever she felt like it. Or else hes locked himself in the

bathroom again with his dirty magazines, doing She couldnt even bring herself to

complete the thought, as the mental image of her lustful brother made her nauseous. For

the millionth time she thought, What was I thinking when I agreed to let such a monster

brother or no brotherlive under my roof?

Marlene pulled open the screen door. In the darkness she did not notice the slice

in the screen. She fumbled with her keys, then was surprised that the wooden door was

not locked. She pushed it open and heard an odd noise, as if the door bumped against


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pieces of a broken plate or coffee mug. She stepped across the threshold carefully and

reach against the wall, searching for the light switch. When she flipped the switch, the

entire kitchen was instantly bathed in bright light, which caused her to squint for a few

moments as her eyes adjusted. Finally she was able to focus, and she saw the broken

glass on the floor and the jagged hole in the small pane on the door. A wave of fear swept

over her.A burglar! her mind screamed. What if hes still in the house?!

Fear urged her to run back to her car and drive away. Fear also paralyzed her. She

stood motionless and listened for any sound that would indicate an intruder might still be

in the house. The only thing she heard was her heart pounding in her chest. After a few

minutes, which seemed like an eternity, Marlenes fear subsided a bit.If someone broke

into my house, he wouldnt do it at this time of day, she thought.Hed do it when I was

still at work.

Gradually anger and curiosity replaced fear, and Marlene finally took a tentative

step forward. As she completed the slow and careful journey across the kitchen, she

called out in a stage whisper, Victor? Victor? Where are you?

She stepped into the hallway that separated the kitchen from the living room. The

light from the kitchen did not reach far enough to reveal what was in the living room.

Marlene again reached out, her hand searching for the hall light switch. She flipped this

switch, and now could clearly see the chaotic scene that was her living room. Her

brothers body lay motionless in the center of the floor, with dried streaks of blood on his

head and face, originating from a single spot in the center of his forehead. Items from the

bookshelves were scattered on the floor, and a couple of drawers were hanging open,

their contents noticeably disheveled.


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Marlene let out an involuntary scream. Oh my God! Oh my God! she yelled, as

she scanned the horrific sight. She immediately turned to her left and ran down the hall

and then up the stairs toward her bedroom. My jewelry! My jewelry! Please, God, no!

Its not insured!!!

#

It was almost midnight when two state troopers and a senior official from the

coroners office zipped up a body bag and wheeled Victor Stassers corpse out the front

door to a waiting van. Because of Victors infamous and high profile status, reporters and

camera crews from the local TV stations swarmed the street in front of Marlene Strassers

home, their floodlights illuminating the neighborhood as if it were high noon. At the sight

of a body on a stretcher, a dozen cameramen scrambled forward for better angles while

two dozen reporters hurriedly thrust microphones toward the cops demanding a comment.

Is that Victor Strasser?! Was he murdered?! Who killed him?! Do you have a

suspect in custody?!

Yellow crime scene tape was ignored and trampled underfoot in the chaotic rush.

Damn leeches! Capt. Ray Bradford muttered as he looked out the open front

door from the living room. We should arrest every last one of them, he said to no one

in particular.

At Bradfords words, Marlene Strasser strode across the living room and peered

over his shoulder. Oh hell! she yelled. Theyre ruining my front yard. Cant you do

anything? she said to Bradford.


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Capt. Bradford swore under his breath, then replied, Yes, maam. He spied two

West Hartford cops walking from the hallway toward the kitchen. Wilson! McGee! he

called out, Get over here. The two young officers hustled to their captain. Get those

reporters off the property and back onto the street, he ordered. Bradford and Marlene

stepped aside so the cops could pass by. As they were about to exit, Bradford held up his

hand; the cops paused. Even though they deserve to be cracked over the head, Bradford

said quietly, be gentle. There will be 20 cameras recording your every move. Thats the

last thing we need, understand? The cops nodded, then left the house.

Exhausted and exasperated, Marlene swore out loud. Capt. Bradford said, Im

very sorry, maam. I know youre tired of answering all our questions, and Im sure the

death of your brother is devastating for you.

Marlene stared at the police captain. Thats the only good thing to come of this!

she thought to herself. That, and the fact the jerks didnt even find my good jewelry. After

a lengthy pause, she realized glee would not be a good emotion to display at that moment,

so she cleared her throat and said, Well, uh, of course. Devastating. I feel so violated.

Criminals breaking into my house, for Gods sake. Um, when will you be through? When

will all these people get out of my home?

Were just about finished, Bradford answered. Let me check with my

detectives. I think we have everything we need.

For the better part of five hours, beginning soon after Marlene made the 9-1-1

call, more than 40 public safety officials examined every square inch of the premises.

Every surface that might contain a fingerprint was dusted; hundreds of bits of evidence

were carefully tagged, bagged, and sealed; and thousands of photographs were snapped.


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Capt. Bradford walked into the kitchen, where Det. Mike Cavanaugh had just

finished giving instructions to three cops. Cavanaugh, Bradford said gruffly, We done

yet?

Yeah, I think so, Mike said. Were starting to pack up our stuff now.

Good. Tomorrow morning, first thing, Bradford said, I want on my desk a list

of all known B&E perps in the area, convicted or suspected.

OK, Captain, Mike said. But just breaking and entering? I mean, its probably

nothing more than a robbery gone bad. You know, they didnt know he was here and then

he startled them, and then they panicked and shot him, et cetera, et cetera. But

But what? Bradford said, obviously agitated.

But Captain, this guy was real high-profile. You saw all those TV trucks out

there, didnt you? A lot of people wanted him dead. And many of those wouldve gladly

volunteered to pull the trigger. Dont you think we should widen the scope of our

investigation, at least at first, until we rule out that it was nothing more than a random

break-in gone bad?

Look, Cavanaugh, the captain growled through clenched teeth, his nose now

mere inches from Mikes nose, Im getting sick and tired of your insubordination crap! I

give the orders around here, understand?!

Mike nodded.

And your job is to obey my orders, nothing more, nothing less. This is obviously

a break-in gone bad. And thats the waythe only waywere gonna investigate it. Do I

make myself clear?

Mike nodded again. He weakly added, Yes sir.


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Good, Bradford said. He turned and began to walk away. First thing! On my

desk! he shouted without turning back.

Oh my God, Mike whispered, shaking his head. That man is truly nuts. He

looked up and noticed five young, suddenly self-conscious cops. Each quickly turned

away in an attempt not to make eye-contact. They were embarrassed about what they had

just witnessed. The combination of humiliation and bewilderment, mixed with a fair

amount of exhaustion, caused Mike to do what he usually did in tense situations. He

laughed out loud.

The five cops turned their heads back toward him and smiled. Mike shrugged his

shoulders, smiled at them, and said, Welcome to the funny farm, fellas.


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Finally it was agreed the official statement would emphasize that law enforcement

was fairly certain the crime had been a botched break-in, with the victims notoriety a

coincidence, but all avenues and all possibilities were still being investigated. The

statement would emphatically declare there was no evidence a so-called vigilante was

operating in West Hartford. Also included would be a request that the media cease

encouraging such irresponsible talk.

Det. Mike sat down at his messy desk in his messy cubical. Personally, he agreed

with Capt. Bradford: all this talk about vigilantes was bunk. The town has merely

experienced an unexpected streak of violent crime. Improbable, but unfortunately

nowadays, not impossible. But he was convinced the official statement would not have

the desired effect. It would instead fan wild speculation. The way the media blends news

and entertainment these days, he thought, this is just too juicy. He made a bet with

himself that one of the local news stations would include a clip from a Charles Bronson

movie before the day was over.

Although Mike agreed with Bradford, he was puzzled by the captains behavior.

Not his rude and intimidating manner, of course. That was normal for the captain. It was

instead his heavy-handed insistence that only the botched burglary theory was to be

investigated. That was not like Bradford. If nothing else, he had always been a thorough

law enforcement professional, chasing down every lead, analyzing every clue, not

drawing any conclusions until all other possibilities were systematically exhausted.

Speaking of exhausted, Mike thought, maybe thats whats going on. Maybe the Captain

is as dog-tired as I am. Maybe he just wants to get this thing over with as soon as

possible, and so he decided to focus on the most likely scenario.


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Mike heard odd noises coming from outside the building, muffled by the sealed

plate glass windows. He stood up and looked over his cubicle wall. Through the window

he saw a herd of media people swarming toward the front entrance of the building. He

could only see part of the crowd, but by the way they were jostling for position and

pointing their cameras, Mike knew the state police spokesman was about to read the

official statement while standing at the top of the front steps.

State Police Lieutenant Van Paulson was a regular on the local news broadcasts.

His face was on TV more often, it seemed, than the President of the United States.

Whenever there was any type of crime or accident anywhere in Connecticut, from a car

crash on Interstate-84 in Vernon to a shooting in Bridgeport, from a vandalized school

bus in Torrington to a missing boater on Long Island Sound, Lt. Paulson was the man

who presented the official statement to the media. Sometimes he would simply read from

a prepared text, then add, I cannot say anything further at this time due to the ongoing

investigation, and walk away. Other times he would answer questions from the

reporters. Mike hoped he would not answer questions. He knew most of the questions

would be about vigilantes, and he knew the more Lt. Paulson denied it, the more the

media would talk about.

Det. Mike sat back down and looked at the piles of paperwork on his desk. Where

to start? he thought glumly. After a few minutes he heard a muffled roar of shouting

voices from outside. Uh oh, theyre asking questions now. There was silence, then

another roar. Silence, then a roar. Mike shook his head.He didnt walk away. I bet hes

denying theres a vigilante, and the more he denies it, the more they ask about it. That


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Charlie Bronson clip will be on the air before noon! he thought, revising the terms of the

wager with himself.

Mike leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Suddenly he paused, then

laughed out loud. That wouldve been perfect! he thought.Instead of Paulson, we

shouldve sent Capt. Bradford out to give the statement. He wouldve growled at those

reporters and said, The next person who asks about a vigilante gets shot,

understand?! Mike smiled, then added to himself,And he wouldve meant it, too.

The exhausted detective cleared some space in the middle of his desk. He opened

a folder that had been placed there by an officer an hour earlier. It was a list of all people

in the region who had been either suspected of breaking into homes or convicted of that

particular crime. The list did not include anyone currently incarcerated. Wow, Mike

said out loud. Look at the size of this list. Every single one of these bums is walking the

streets free right now. No wonder the world is such a mess.

Mike was certain there was no vigilantes at work in his community, but if there

had been, a part of him would have sympathized. He often dwelled on how conditions

had changed so drastically in the years since he first became a cop. We are fighting a

losing battle, he thought to himself on more than one occasion, especially after he had

had a few beers and was feeling sorry for himself.

Mike had lost count of the number of times he and his fellow officers had worked

their butts off to make sure the police department had an ironclad case against a truly

violent and anti-social criminal, only to see some slick lawyer either get the defendant off

on a technicality or plea-bargain down to time served. The few times low-life creeps

actually laughed in Mikes face while waltzing out of the courtroom infuriated him the


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most. At those moments his Irish temper caused his face to turn bright red, and no doubt

caused his blood pressure to sky-rocket. Mike remembers one time glancing down at the

weapon in the holster on his belt, and feeling his right hand flinch with the urge to grab

the pistol and take justice into his own hands.

The detective shook his head at the mere remembrance of that fleeting but

powerful urge.I can understand why someone might be tempted, he thought.But as

Danny taught me, thats nothing more than playing God, and that is always bad news in

the long run. Mike picked up a pencil and started marking the names on the list into

groups of ten. After a few moments, he looked up and stared off in the distance.But it

sure would feel good in the short run, he added, concluding his train of thought. Then he

whispered to himself, OK, concentrate, pal. Looking at the list again, Mike realized he

would need at least six of his own officers, plus a lot help from neighboring departments,

to track down all the names.

He leaned back and turned slightly, reaching with his left hand to turn on a small

radio on top of a short filing cabinet. The first voice he heard was that of Pit Bull

Peterson, who was concluding his Saturday morning broadcast. Well, its been a wild

morning, hasnt it, folks? Weve had a lively discussion during these past four hours, and

the only thing youve wanted to talk about is the sensational murder in West Hartford. It

seems many of you are convinced this is the work of a vigilante. Hmm, very interesting,

very interesting indeed.

Detective Mike looked at the radio and shook his head. Oh great, I knew this

would happen.


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Chapter 21

Monday, November 15th, 9:45 a.m.

The desk of Det. Mike Cavanaugh had become even messier than he could have

imagined possible. He sat behind the piles of clutter and listened as a rookie patrolman

reviewed a list of breaking and entering suspects. Eight of the 10 names on the

patrolmans list were accounted for: two had been in custody in neighboring towns on

unrelated charges at the time of Victor Strassers murder, while six had reasonable alibis,

in the form of witnesses who vouched for their whereabouts during the hours when

Victor most likely was shot. Only two still needed to be tracked down, and Mike

encouraged the young officer to keep at it.

As the officer turned to leave, Mike said, Tell Vibbs to come see me. Mike

rubbed his temples and noted the double dose of Tylenol and black coffee were having no

effect on his pounding headache. What I need, he thought, is to go on vacation and sleep

for a week, then immediately go on another vacation so I can take a real vacation. But he

knew there would be no vacation anytime soon, not as long as people were getting shot in

the head in his town. He had worked every single day since Jitterbug Rivera was gunned


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down, and virtually around-the-clock since Marlene Strasser made her 9-1-1 call sixty-

three hours earlier.

A few minutes later Sergeant Rich Vibberts poked his head through the doorway

of Mikes cubicle. You wanted to see me, sir? he said.

Yeah Vibbs, come in. Vibberts was one of the few officers not given a list of

breaking and entering suspects to track down. He had been assigned to interview Marlene

Strassers neighbors, to determine if anyone had seen or heard anything that might help

the investigation. Det. Cavanaugh was getting frustrated, and not just because of his acute

sleep deprivation and headache. Three stunning murders in a span of three weeks, and the

West Hartford PD had not a single suspect yet. A couple of local punks, known to be low

level cocaine dealers, at first were thought to be prime suspects in the shooting of Eddie

Dykes. But it quickly became clear they were nowhere near the crime scene that

particular evening. Since then the PD had come up empty. Not surprisingly, pressure

from the public, the media, and grandstanding politicians continued to mount, making it

even more difficult for the cops to do their job. The swirling rumors about mysterious

vigilantes didnt help either.

So whatd you find out? Mike asked. Anything interesting?

Not really, Vibberts answered. Thats a really quiet neighborhood. Most of the

people were at work all day. And because the houses are so spread out from one another,

and set back from the road, the ones who were home didnt really see anything.

The sergeant read from a notebook, reciting the names of people he interviewed

so far, and summarized his findings after each name with quick phrases, such as, Saw


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nothing, Sleeping all day, Was in the basement doing laundry, Elderly and deaf

wouldntve heard anything if a bomb went off next door, etc.

Towards the end of his list, Vibberts reported, Mrs. Benedictsaw and heard

nothingtold me she took her dog for a walk before lunch and saw a cable company van

parked in front of the Feinberg house, Strassers next door neighbor.

Really? Det. Mike said, looking up. Did you check it out? Maybe the cable

guy saw something.

Yeah, I got a call into Comcast. Havent heard back yet.

OK, Mike said. Next.

Vibberts continued. Mr. Aronsonreally old guysaw nothingwatched TV

all day, with the sound turned up as loud as possible. Vibberts smiled and shook his

head.

Just then Capt. Bradford walked into Det. Cavanaughs cubicle. Where do we

stand? he asked gruffly. Any of the B&E scum look promising?

Um, nothing yet, sir, Mike said, as he sat up straight in his chair, trying to

appear more alert and focused than he really felt. We still have a few more on our list to

track down. The men are really working hard to get through the whole list.

All right, keep me posted, Bradford said.

Vibbs here has been checking out the neighborhood, Mike added without being

asked. Nothing so far, except one neighbor saw a cable TV truck parked near the

Strasser house. Were gonna check to see if

Nah, dont bother, Bradford interrupted. The other two cops stared at the

captain, their furrowed brows silently asking the question, Why not?


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Bradford paused. His lips were pursed. Then he said, Um, no need to. McGee

already talked to the guy. Saw nothing. Wasnt any help to us.

Oh, good, Mike said with relief. One less guy to track down.

Keep me posted, understand? Bradford said. Then he turned and walked out.

Yes sir, Mike said a bit flippantly, knowing the captain was already far out of

earshot, We will keep you posted. Sir. He looked at the sergeant, shook his head, and

said, OK Vibbs, let me know if anything turns up.

The sergeant exited the cubicle, and Det. Cavanaugh began organizing small, neat

stacks of file folders and other papers, trying to bring some order to the chaos. Theyre

gonna come in one morning and find me dead in here , he thought, crushed to death

under a mountain of file folders that fell on top of me.

About ten minutes later, Sergeant Vibberts returned. Sir, you got a minute? he

said quietly as he entered the cubicle again.

Sure, whats up?

Well, uh, the sergeant began, Comcast returned my call. The service

dispatcher. Said they were never at the Feinberg house on Friday. They didnt have any

appointments scheduled anywhere on that street.

Really? Mike said, rubbing his hand on his chin. Do they keep separate

records? You know, service calls versus new installations? he asked.

I asked him, came the reply. The guy checked all the jobs they did on Friday.

Nothing.

Then who did McGee talk to? Mike asked the wall quietly, knowing the

sergeant had no answer. Weird.


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He accounted for all his vehicles, Vibberts continued. They were all busy on

Fridaybut not at the Feinbergs house. I dunno, maybe a truck stopped there but the

guy just forgot to fill out his paperwork. Oh, all the trucks were busy except for one, he

corrected himself. One van was in the shop for service, he told me.

Mike continued to gaze at the wall, trying to think. Thanks, Vibbs, he said

finally.

Sure, Vibberts said as he turned. Then he stopped and looked back. Oh, one

other thing. The Feinbergs are in Europe. I checked. Theyve been gone three weeks now,

and arent due home till Thanksgiving.

Mike turned and looked at him, even more puzzled. The sergeant asked, Who

has the cable guy come to your house, with or without paperwork, when youre not even

home?

Mike shrugged. Weird, he said again. Really weird.

Brake job, the sergeant offered.

Huh? Mike grunted.

Im trying to remember everything the Comcast guy just told me, Vibberts said,

somewhat defensively. Um, the van that was in for service had a brake job. Wilkins

Ford. Thats everything he told me, sir.

Mike nodded, signaling that the sergeant was dismissed. As he nodded, his eyes

grew wide. Damn! he muttered under his breath. Damn, damn, damn! The dealer

plate! he scolded himself silently in his head. My buddy at DMV! Wilkins Ford! I totally

forgot to check it out! Damn! he muttered one more time.


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Quickly he began to sort through file folders, looking for one thin file that

contained exactly one sheet of paper. On that sheet of paper was written information

provided by his friend at the Department of Motor Vehicles, along with the number of a

dealer plate that may or may not have beenaccording to some anonymous kid who

spoke to his brother, the priestaffixed to the back bumper of the car driven by the

person who gunned down Jitterbug Rivera.

Damn, Mike muttered again, this time a bit louder. This always happens, he

grumbled. When my office is a pig sty, I know where everything is. As soon as I clean

up a little, I cant find anything! He methodically deconstructed the neat piles of folders

he had just built, frantically looking in the thin ones and ignoring the thick ones.

Finally he exclaimed, Ah ha! He closed the manila folder he held tightly in his

hands, after scanning the single piece of yellow lined paper it contained. He clutched the

folder to his chest with his right hand and reached for the jacket on a hook with his left.

He quickly exited the cubicle, hop-scotching past file folders scattered on the floor. Mike

Cavanaughs cubicle now truly looked like an explosion in a Staples store.


30/55

Chapter 22

Monday, November 15th, 11:15 a.m.

The unmarked Ford Crown Victoria pulled around the back of the Service

Department of Wilkins Ford and parked in front of one of the four closed roll-up doors.

Det. Mike Cavanaugh left the keys in the car and walked into the building through the

customer entrance door. Duane Waller stood behind the service counter talking on the

phone. Two lines blinked on-hold waiting for Duane to pick up, while two customers

stood at the counter rather impatiently, waiting to speak to the young service manager.

Mike stood off to the side, quietly waiting his turn to speak to Duane and find out

whether the busy shop might be able to squeeze him in for an overdue oil change. Tom

Wilkins not only sold most of the vehicles owned by the West Hartford P.D., he also had

an exclusive service contract with the department. Mike had been here many times before

over the years with his various department-issued Crown Vics for oil changes, brakes,

tune ups, tires, etc.

While he waited, he scanned the bustling service area. He wasnt looking for

anything in particular, he was just looking around observantly, the way he was trained

many years earlier to look around, the way he and most other cops instinctively scanned a


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room, whether on duty or not. Mike looked at peoplewhat were they doing, who was

talking to whom, and could he see their hands or not? He looked at the various objects

within viewwas anything dangerous or a potential weapon? He looked at sight lines,

exit paths, lighting, barriers, doorways, and all the other things most civilians would

never even notice. Over the years Mike had developed a pretty good cops instinct. He

could sense when a person was suspicious, even when that person wasnt overtly acting

suspicious. Of course, once in a while his sixth sense caused him to slap handcuffs on a

completely innocent person, but more often than not he was able to pluck a perpetrator

out of a crowd after observing something barely detectable, a glance, a grimace, a

clenched fist, or hands thrust into pockets a little too quickly.

Mike wasnt scanning the service area in the hopes of plucking a perp. Frankly, he

didnt know what he was hoping to do. But the name Wilkins Ford has surfaced twice

now, and his sixth sense told him it was unusual enough that it needed to be checked

out. Duane was making slow but steady headway with his waiting customers. There was

only one phone line blinking and only one person standing at the counter. Mike decided

to say hi to Pepe Colon, a longtime mechanic at Wilkins, who was in the middle of

installing a new starter motor in a red pickup truck.

Pepe! Mike called out, as he walked past a sign that read, Authorized

personnel only beyond this point.

Pepe looked up and immediately recognized Mike. Hey boss! he yelled back

with a big, crooked smile. Pepe didnt know Mikes name or rank, but he knew the man

in civilian clothes was one of West Hartfords finest. Pepe was familiar with many cops

in the greater Hartford area. He had been in and out of trouble as a teen. By the time he


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reached his 30s he decided he was getting too old to be a street punk, so he went straight.

He enrolled in night school and learned automotive maintenance. He bounced around at a

few dealerships before settling in at Wilkins Ford ten years earlier, where he was now

known as an above average and dependable mechanic. In his mid-40s now, Pepe Colon

was wiry, with strong forearms, and a gapped-tooth smile that made him look closer to

60. Because of his connections from he prior way of lifeincluding many relatives and

former girlfriendsPepe often supplemented his income by providing useful information

to the cops.

Whats up, boss? Pepe asked when Mike came along side the red pick up truck.

You tryin to find someone, maybe? he added, hoping one of the many names or

addressed in his head might be worth a quick hundred bucks cash.

Nah, Im just here for an oil change, Mike said. Pepe shrugged. You guys do

the work on all our cars, you know, Mike offered.

Yeah, and you cops never bring em in on time! Pepe exclaimed. Half the time

were draining sludge out of the crankcase. You guys are killing those poor cars. You

drive em like you dont own em!

Now it was Mikes turn to shrug. Well, we dont own them, he thought. Then he

said, I guess youre right. But who has time nowadays for service appointments? He

paused and then changed the subject. So Pepe, you guys have a bunch of fleet

maintenance accounts, not just with the PD, right?

Pepe thought for a moment as he tightened one of the bolts on the starter motor.

Yeah, I guess, he said. But nothing real big, like you guys.


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Do you do maintenance for Comcast, you know, the cable TV company, their

service trucks? the detective asked.

Yeah, sometimes, Pepe replied. Not all the time. They spread out the work to a

few different shops.

Did you have one of their vans in for service last week?

Pepe stopped tightening the bolt and stood up straight. Um, good question,

lemme think. After a few moments he said, Yeah, I think youre right. I didnt work on

it, but Im pretty sure one of their vans was here for a few days last week.

When youre working on a vehicle, Mike asked, who has access to the keys?

Well, we do, Pepe answered, as if he had been asked the dumbest question in

the world. We need to start the engine to make sure we fixed it right. And then how we

spose to drive it outside to make room for the next car? he asked sarcastically.

Mike shook his head and smiled. I know, I know. Thats not what I meant. After

you finish working on a car, and after you drive it outside, then who has access to the

keys?

Oh, well then we bring the keys back in, and Brown Nose puts em on the big

board until the customer comes to pick up the car.

Brown Nose? Mike asked.

Him, over there, Pepe nodded his head toward the service counter. Doo-

wayne-nee, the teachers pet. I mean, the owners pet. Once were done with a job, hes

the only one who can get the keys.

Whats the matter, you dont like him? Mike asked.


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Ahh, I dunno, Pepe muttered. Hes OK, I guess. Its just that hes one of Mr.

Wilkins churchy boys. You know, you go to church with the boss and you get promoted,

even if youre too young or you dont know what the hell youre doing.

He doesnt know what hes doing? Mike said.

Ahh, I dunno, Pepe said with frustration. Hes not too badnow. Hes just a

little too goody-goody for my

Pepe stopped in mid sentence and stared past Mike. A concerned voice said,

Excuse me, sir. Youre not allowed over here.

Mike turned. It was Duane. Pepe spoke first. Hes OK, Duane. Hes a cop.

Duane looked at Pepe sternly, as if to say, So what?

Hey, Im sorry, Mike said very apologetically. I was just saying hi to my old

friend here. But Im glad youre off the phone. I was hoping you might be able to sneak

me in and do an oil change on my cruiser. Its way overdue.

See, whatd I tell you? Pepe said with a laugh. Sludge. It bets its completely

sludge. Then he added, Hey Duane, Ill work through lunch and do it, if you want.

Mike waved fondly at Pepe and walked back to the service counter with Duane.

Five minutes later, after determining the oil change could be done rather quickly

because of Pepes offerDuane got swamped with another wave of phone calls.

Mike drifted over to Pepes work area again. Hey, thanks, he said. I appreciate

you giving up your lunch.

Ill just eat at 12:30, man, Pepe said. No big deal.

Another question for you, Mike said.

Pepe shook his head and smiled. Lots of questions, amigo, but no dinero.


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Mike groaned and reached for his wallet. He pulled out two 20-dollar bills, which

left behind exactly four singles. Man, Im broke, Mike said. This is all I gotamigo.

Pepe quickly shoved the bills in his pocket. OK, shoot.

Well, I was wondering, Mike began. You guys have a lot of dealer plates

around here. I mean, up front, the sales guys, they have those dealer plates with magnets

they slap on a car so a customer can take a test drive, right?

Yeah, of course, Pepe said. They got lots of em up front.

OK, my question is, do you know if there are any Mike paused, trying to find

the right word, any secret plates? I mean, maybe an old dealer plate thats not

officially registered with the state anymore, so no one would know it came from this

business?

Pepe gazed hard at Mike. Why do you askamigo?

Hey, Im tapped out. I already gave you everything I have, man. So, have you

ever heard about anything like that or not?

Pepe glanced around to see if anyone was nearby. Duane was still juggling phone

calls. Well, he began slowly, Ive heard rumorsthats all, really. But Ive heard

there might be a couple of old dealer plates kicking around. Plates that would never show

up on any computer. Ive never seen one, but boy, I know a lot of people who would pay

a fortune to get their hands on one.

Im sure, Mike said.

If they exist, Pepe said, then only the owner, Mr. Wilkins, would know where

they are. Or the owners pet, he added with a sneer.

Well, thanks for the info, Mike said. Do me one more favor, please?


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Oh man, Pepe said with a grin, I am such a cheap date.

Yeah, right, Mike groaned again. Do me a favor: keep you eyes open for a

particular plate. He fumbled for a small notebook in his shirt pocket. Heres the

number: 3-1-3-5-7. He tore the small sheet from the pad and handed it to the wiry

mechanic.

This sounds serious, man, Pepe said. Then he looked up with his big picket

fence smile, Is Duane in trouble? he asked hopefully.

No! Mike said emphatically. Its probably nothing. But just keep your eyes

open, and Ill make it worth your while, OK?

Now youre talking, boss, Pepe said.

And of course, Mike said, lowering his voice for emphasis, You dont say

anything to anyone about this, comprendo?

Its comprende, mi gringo amigo, Pepe corrected with a laugh. I got it, boss.

You know meI never talk.

Mike smiled. Then he turned and walked away. Yeah, right, he thought. You

never talk? You make more money each year than I do just by running your mouth, mi

amigo! He glanced at his watch and felt his stomach growl. Maybe he could get

something to eat from the vending machine in the customer waiting area. He waved to

Duane as he walked by. That Duane kid seems like hes doing a decent job, he thought as

he watched the beleaguered service manager juggle phone calls.Pepes just jealous, I

guess.


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Chapter 23

Tuesday, November 16th, 9:55 a.m.

Sergeant Rich Vibberts knocked on the edge of Det. Mike Cavanaughs cubicle.

Got a minute? he asked.

Sure, Vibbs. Whats up? Mike replied without looking up from his messy desk.

I ran a check on that Waller guy, like you asked. Got a few interesting items.

OK, Mike said as he leaned back in his chair. So whats interesting about Mr.

Doo-wayne-nee Waller?

The sergeant gave Mike a puzzled look at the way he pronounced the name. Then

he said, Well, seems he was pretty messed up as a kid. He pulled a notebook from his

pocket and began to read. Dropped out of high school, arrested a few times for drugs,

lived on the street for a while. But then in his mid-20s he turned it all around. Got clean

and sober, joined a church, steady employment, been working real hard ever since.

Hmm, thats a nice story, Mike said. I wish more kids would turn their lives

around like that. What makes it interesting?

In the past few years, Waller has been arrested three times, Vibberts answered.

For what? Mike asked, tilting his head with curiosity.


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Creating a disturbance. Harassment. Resisting an officer. Vibberts put the

notebook back in his pocket and said, It seems he is now one of those born-again

fanatics who protests at abortion clinics and porn shops and same-sex marriage rallies.

When the cops tell the protesters to move on, Waller digs in his heels, even if it means

getting busted.

Oh, I see, Mike said slowly, pondering what it could mean.

Also, Vibberts continued, he likes to post his views on a bunch of right-wing

blog sites. He was easy to track down. He doesnt use a false name. And I gotta tell you,

hes got some pretty strong opinions about the moral state of our nation.

Hmm, so do I, Mike grunted. What kind of opinions?

Well, hes convinced the deviants and criminals and godless hordes are now

running the countyand ruining the country in the process.

Mike grunted again. You and I kinda think that way too sometimes, dont we,

Vibbs?

The sergeant smiled, then continued. Anyway, Waller also wrote that our entire

American way of life is going down the toilet, and were destined to collapse in a heap

unless a whole lot of immoral people are taken off the streets in a hurry.

Taken off the streets? Mike asked. Did he say exactlyhow?

Well, he didnt come right out and threaten violence, if thats what you mean,

Vibberts said. But he did post long essaysyou might call them rantsabout the

coming chaos, and the 2nd Amendment, and the need for godly people to stockpile

canned food and guns. General stuff like that, but nothing real specific. A little wacked-

out, for sure, but no direct threats against anyone. What are you thinking, sir?


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I dont know what Im thinking, Vibbs, Mike answered with a sigh. Im

thinking that maybe Ive been listening to the radio too much, and all that talk about

righteous vigilantes who gun down the bad guys. I think all those loudmouths on the

radio are making me lose my focus. I should be tracking down the thugs who shot other

thugs, but instead Im thinking about who might fit a so-called vigilante profile.

Are you thinking Waller might fit the profile? Vibberts asked quietly.

Mike slowly shook his head, then shrugged. I dont know what to think anymore,

Richie, he said. Well, I guess I have to pass this info up the chain-of-command. Is

Capt. Bradford in?

Yeah, he should be in his office now. I saw him come out of a meeting with the

State Police brass a few minutes ago, and he looked pretty steamed.

Oh good, Mike said with a mock smile as he stood up. Then hell be in his

typical cheery mood.

The sergeant laughed out loud, then stepped back to let the lieutenant exit the

cubicle. When Mike walked past, Vibberts grabbed him by the shoulder and as seriously

as possible said in a low, urgent voice, Good luck. And good-bye. Unable to hold his

serious expression for more than a second, he blurted out a chuckle.

In response, Mike laughed and scowled at the same time, then pantomimed

slapping Vibberts on the side of the head. Jeez, you young guys, he said, also trying to

be serious but failing. Show a little respect once in a while.

Cracking small jokes about Capt. Bradfords surly personality was one of the few

morale boosters for the rank-and-file members of the force. Mike was torn between being

one of the guys and being part of management. He knew it was helpful to let the young


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cooperating with law enforcement to identify the lowlife creeps who were unraveling the

fabric of civilized society. The police captain was convinced half the problem was the

fact that honest citizens, although not law-breakers themselves, were too apathetic. (The

other half of the problem, in Bradfords view, was the army of bleeding-heart lawyers

and judges who coddled punks instead of cracking them over the head once in a while.)

Unlike bygone generations, people nowadays no longer felt it was their place to insist on

decent behavior by other citizens. If the killings could produce enough righteous anger in

the community, Bradford was certain the troublemakers would be forced to shape up or

leave town, improving the quality of life for everyone either way.

Bradford was very concerned the talk of vigilantes surfaced so quickly. That was

the last thing he wanted. He didnt mind arguing that the vigilante idea was ridiculous.

Most of the other cops he was working with agreed it was a very unlikely scenario, with

the murders most certainly committed by drug dealers or other career criminals. What

Bradford did mind, and what was fraying his nerves, was his task of squelching any

investigation of the vigilante angle. He adamantly refused to allocate any PD resources,

even though a senior official with the State Police offered assistance. Bradford had

insisted his men were overworked already and spread too thin for such a wild goose

chasethings he never seemed too concerned about in the past. He had even argued his

case from a budgetary and spending the tax-payers money wisely perspective. Some

of his arguments and excuses were beginning to sound ridiculous, even to himself. The

captain was starting to wonder if the secret group might have to suspend operations for a

while if the vigilante rumors persisted.


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Mike Cavanaugh briefed his captain on the current status of the three separate

murder investigations. It took over five minutes for Mike to summarize the activities and

findings of the various police officers working on the cases, but the bottom line was the

department was not any closer to an arrest. They didnt even have any suspects.

At the conclusion of Mikes summary, Capt. Bradford nodded and waved his

hand. Mike was dismissed. Before turning to leave the office, he paused. He really didnt

want to bring up the subject, but he thought he had to. He cleared his throat with a forced

cough, then said, Um, Captain, theres one other thing.

Bradford looked up and peered icily into Mikes eyes. What? he said in a tone

of voice that made Mike gulp involuntarily.

Well, sir, Mike began, I know you dont want to hear this, and I agree with

you one-hundred percent. But Im afraid all this talkall thisstupidtalkabout a, a

vigilante, is not gonna go away. So I know its a total waste of time Mike spoke

quickly, trying desperately to convince the captain that he agreed with his point of view,

but how about if I put together a preliminary outline of a vigilante profile?

Bradford face turned red as he clenched his teeth. He looked like he was about to

explode.

Mike kept talking before the captain could say anything. I mean, just a simple

little outline: young, male, loner, anti-government fanatic, you know, like a Timothy

McVeigh, or something. It wouldnt be anything official or very detailedand I wouldnt

divert any department resourcesbut just something so we could tell the Staties and

media and the politicians that were investigating every possibility.


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Bradford took a deep breath. His face regained its normal color. He pursed his

lips and leaned back slightly as he thought. Mike felt a strong urge to turn and run before

a geyser of anger spewed in his direction.

Bradford wasnt sure what a typical vigilante profile might look like. He had

never given that any thought. But the brief description offered by Cavanaugh did not in

any way describe him or his three other middle-aged co-conspirators. Finally he said

quietly, OK, maybe thats not a bad idea. Just a brief outline, the traits you just listed.

Maybe that will keep those jerks off our backs for a while. The captain waved his hand

again, and this time Mike took the cue and exited quickly. As he walked back to his

cubicle, Mike was delighted and stunned that Capt. Bradford had actually agree with him.

He didnt want to press his luck by mentioning Duane Waller, but he figured he could

bring that up later on.

While Mike walked down the hallway, Capt. Bradford sat at his desk, deep in

thought. Maybe we can use this to our advantage after all, he said to himself. Then what

passed for a smile spread across his lips.


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Chapter 24

Wednesday, November 17th, 8:40 a.m.

Fr. Dan Cavanaugh entered the St. Lawrence Rectory through the kitchen door.

He had just finished celebrating morning Mass, and the two cups of coffee he drank

before Mass didnt seem to wake him up much. He tossed his jacket onto a chair and

went over to the coffee maker on the counter by the sink. About a cup-and-a-half of old,

cold coffee sat in the glass pot. That stuff should be able to peel paint by now, he thought,

so if I heat it up in the microwave, it ought to wake me up just finealong with peeling

the lining of my stomach. The coffee probably wouldnt taste very good, but Fr. Dan

figured speed was more important than quality.

He poured the cold coffee into a ceramic mug, then put it in the microwave for 60

seconds. While he watched the mug rotate inside the microwave, he reached over to a

clock radio, turned it on and slid the little wheel until a station came in clearly. Thank

you, Jennifer, a voice intoned from the radio. Lets hope they clear that accident near

exit 48 as soon as possible. Its now seventeen minutes before nine oclock. The Channel

3 Pinpoint Weather forecast calls for partly cloudy skies today with a high only in the

upper 30s. I think winter is just around the corner, folks. OK, after these words from our


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That would be fine, she said. I appreciate it.

As Fr. Dan paused, trying to think of something else to say, a voice from the radio

pierced the quiet kitchen. So, Pit Bull, the brash voice said, obviously on a phone line,

I dunno if its a vigilante or not, but I think its awesome! You got a drunk, Dykes,

dead! You got a druggie, Rivera, dead! You got a child molester, Strasser, dead! Its all

good news, if you ask me, man!

OK, Vern from Newington. Thanks for the call, the announcer said with a

chuckle. I tell you, folks, you people are fired up today. Youre making my head

explode!

The sound of an explosion came out of the small speaker. The announcer could be

heard laughing in the background. Fr. Dan looked at the clock radio with puzzlement.

What in the world is that all about? he wondered. Then he looked back toward the table

and saw that Anna was crying. Suddenly he got it. He turned back toward the radio.

Theyre talking about Jitterbug! Theyre laughing at the fact that he was murdered! He

lunged across the counter and shut the radio off.

Im so sorry, he said.

Oh Father, you dont know what its like, Anna sobbed. People who never

even met Luis, who dont know him at all, are laughing and joking and celebrating that

hes, hes dead! Oh Father.

She seemed to melt onto the kitchen table, with her head slumped forward onto

her crossed arms, her back and shoulders heaving with each sob.

Fr. Dan stepped toward her and leaned down. He tentatively put his right arm

around her shoulders and whispered, Its OK, Anna, let it out. Dont worry about those


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people. Theyre ignorant. They never met Jitterbug. Theyll never know what a good and

kind boy he was, he continued. They dont understand; they never will. Please dont let

them bother you, Anna. Theyre justignorant. We really need to pray for them, because

they know not what they do.

Anna lifted her head off the table, and turned to look directly at Fr. Dan. Despite

the tears and the runny mascara, she still looked beautiful. Oh Dan, she hoarsely,

Youre so kind. Youre always thinking about the needs of others. Youre so unselfish.

Guess I fooled you, the priest thought, as all of his self-centered desires of the past

few weeks suddenly leapt to the front of his mind. He was still bent forward at the waist,

with his arm cradled around her shoulders. Without warning she pushed the chair away

from the table, stood up, and clutched Fr. Dan in a powerful bear hug. She embraced him

so suddenly and forcefully, he actually gasped as she squeezed the air our of him. But

once he caught his breath and returned her hug by gently wrapping his arms around her

back, he thought that this feeling must be what Heaven is like.

They stayed locked in their warm and tight embrace for almost two minutes. Fr.

Dans mind started to wander again, as it had on the night Jitterbug died. The more he

hugged Anna, the more he wanted her. And the more he wanted her the more a voice

screamed in his head, This is wrong, pal, wrong, wrong, wrong!

Fr. Dan now knew why the cartoonish figures of a devil on one shoulder and an

angel on the other was such a universal image. He truly felt a war raging within himself,

with one voice urging him, Go for it! while another voice pleaded, No, dont do it!

Just then the front door bell rang. Both of them flinched at the sound. I, uh, I

have to get that, Fr. Dan said, as he separated himself from Anna.


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Yes, yes, she said as she wiped her tear streaked face. I should go now. Thank

you again, Dan, uhFather.

They both walked to the front door as the bell rang again. Fr. Dan opened the door

and saw Mrs. Mullen standing on the top step. Im not interrupting anything am I? she

asked.

No, no, Fr. Dan said, Mrs. Rivera was just leaving. Anna slipped her jacket

on, gave a quick wave, and exited the Rectory. Mrs. Mullen stared at Anna with distain as

she hurried down the steps and walked away.

She then turned to Fr. Dan and muttered, Well!

Fr. Dan closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, then said as pleasantly as

possible, So, Mrs. M., what can I do for you?

Well, Father, the woman said as she strode into the building without being

invited, I know you dont want to hear it, but I have to speak to you about the music as

Mass last Sunday. It was simply unacceptable!

Fr. Dan smiled and shook his head again. Mrs. M., he thought to himself, Youll

never believe this, but I am actually glad you came here. I think you prevented me from

doing something I would regret for the rest of my life.


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was too hyper for that. He ignored Wilkins soothing advice and continued to speed-talk.

He talked about the weapon, how comfortable it felt when he fired it at the gun range. He

talked about the groups overall plan, how noble it was. He talked about his target and

how the world was soon to be much better off without him in it.

Archie Nathans name recently appeared on one on Det. Mike Cavanaughs lists

of breaking and entering suspects. He was well known to law enforcement officials in the

Hartford area. Nathan was a bold and daring smash and grab thief. He had been

arrested three times over the years, but convicted only once, which resulted in a nine-

month prison sentence. The cops knew he was responsible for upwards of a hundred

break-ins during the past eight years. There were probably another hundred they didnt

connect to him. Unfortunately, the cops had a tough time catching him red-handed. As

soon as Capt. Bradford saw his name on Det. Cavanaughs list, he made the decision that

Archie would be the guest of honor for the groups next mission.

Archie lived in unit D12 of Lowell Acres, often referred to as Low Life Acres.

The structures were first built in the early 1970s as apartments, then went condo in the

mid- 90s. The development was a step up from a low-income housing project, but not

much of a step up. The development probably needed security cameras more than most

condo complexes, but as Capt. Bradford knew very well, it had none.

The Ford Escape was backed into a parking space in the guest area of the lot. It

faced Building D, and was about 40 feet from an empty parking space, labeled D12 in

faded yellow paint on the pavement. The two men had been sitting there for about 25

minutes, and had seen four vehicles come and go.


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Pit Bull recapped for Wilkins the discussion from the previous evenings secret

meeting. After twice saying, I know, Pit Bull, I was there, Wilkins rolled his eyes and

gave up trying to remind his friend that he knew exactly what had been discussed at the

meeting.

It had been a fairly significant meeting of the four conspirators on Wednesday

evening. For the first time Captain Bradford eased up on his anger regarding the vigilante

rumors. He described the profile outlined by one of his detectives, and all four men

immediately recognized that they did not match that profile. A clergyman, a police

captain, a radio personality and a respected businessmanmiddle-aged family men all

were simply not the type of folks the authorities would search for, if they ever did decide

to investigate the vigilante angle.

The group had listed the pros and cons of having vigilante rumors swirl through

the community. The most obvious con, of course, was the fact they were in fact a

vigilante group. The primary pro, however, was very attractive. The notion of secret

vigilantes might scare criminals in a unique way. All law-breakers know the dangers

posed by the activities they engage in and the people with whom the associate. Most drug

dealers, for example, are more afraid of the violent tendencies of their customers and

suppliers than they are afraid of the police. But the idea of total strangers, avenging

angels as it were, swooping in suddenly and blowing away criminals without warning,

just might cause many undesirables in town either to move out or curtail their illegal

behaviors.

The secret group also had long-term hopes of someday seeing their mission

expand, possibly with the formation of separate independently operating groups engaged


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in similar actions. The four men were convinced there were plenty of decent, law-abiding

citizens who were quite concerned about societys chaotic and lawless situation. The trick

would be to convince them to see the wisdom of engaging in extreme measures in order

to take back their community. If the missions continued to succeed, if criminals were

scared straight or fled town, causing a noticeable reduction in crime (not counting

vigilante murders, of course), then public opinion would be on their side. It would not

take much, they reasoned, to recruit new comrades in armscarefully screened and

thoroughly trustworthy new comrades.

The one part of the previous evenings meeting that Pit Bull neglected to recap

was Capt. Bradfords harsh warning. The vigilante topic was no longer taboo, but the

police captain had put his nose within inches of Pit Bulls nose and warned the radio host,

in no uncertain terms, not to say something stupid. Tom Wilkins worried that might not

be possible.

At 2:16 a.m. Tom Wilkins cell phone rang. It was Capt. Bradford, alerting the two

men in the Ford SUV that the subject was on the move. Wilkins closed the phone, and

said flatly, Hes on his way. The Ford became very quiet as the two men waited. Three

minutes later they noticed headlights turning into the parking lot. As the vehicle came

toward them, they could see from the shadowy outline that it was a Jeep. When it turned

into parking space D12, they could see by the dim glow of a distant street light that it was

a red Wrangler with black canvas top and oversized tires: Archie Nathans car.

Pit Bull watched the Jeep and quivered. Wilkins coolly looked to the left and right

to see if any other vehicles or people were around. Satisfied all was quiet, he put his right

hand on Pit Bulls left shoulder and said, Do it.


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Pit Bull slipped out of the Ford. His legs were stiff and achy from sitting in the car

for so long. He saw the drivers side door of the Jeep open. He walked quickly in the

darkness toward the rear of the Jeep, his tennis shoe-clad feet quiet on the pavement. The

driver of the Jeep got out and closed the door. As he took a step toward the front of the

vehicle, Pit Bull quickened his pace. When he was within five feet of the back of the

Jeep, he raised the gun and pulled the trigger twice. Two soft phut-phut sounds came

out of the pistol. Two hard slugs went into the targets back, causing him to lurch to the

right and lean against the hood of the Jeep. The stricken man turned and faced the source

of his distress. His eyes were as wide as saucers. Pit Bull took a large step forward and

fired two more rounds, one into the stomach, the other in the center of the chest.

The four slugs caused the figure to slide down the side of the Jeep and crumple to

the pavement next to the front left tire, lying flat on his back and softly groaning.

Mortally wounded, death from blood loss would occur within ten minutes. But Pit Bull

hastened the time-line by stepping forward again and firing the fifth and final round into

the victims throat, which shattered the spinal cord at the base of his skull.

Tom Wilkins started the Ford and moved it forward, slowly steering to the left. Pit

Bull turned and ran back, and clambered into the passenger seat. Wilkins drove away

quickly but carefully, so as not to squeal the tires. Pit Bull was chattering even quicker

and louder than usual, triumphantly describing the successful mission. Wilkins

congratulated his friend and tried to calm him down at the same time. Wilkins took the

weapon from Pit Bull and placed it under his seat. Capt. Bradford had asked him to hold

onto the SIG, as a pistol with a silencer could come in handy in the future.


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Documents

Purge the Evil Chaps 17 - 25