[Lady Justice 22] - Lady Justice and the Conspiracy Trial Read online

  LADY JUSTICE

  AND THE

  CONSPIRACY

  TRIAL

  A WALT WILLIAMS

  MYSTERY/COMEDY NOVEL

  ROBERT THORNHILL

  Lady Justice and the Conspiracy Trial

  Copyright February, 2016 by Robert Thornhill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, incidents and entities included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events and entities is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America

  Cover design by Peg Thornhill

  Fiction, Humorous

  Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General

  LADY JUSTICE

  AND THE

  CONSPIRACY TRIAL

  CHAPTER 1

  Jack Carson’s mouth was dry, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Another look in the rear view mirror confirmed his worst fear --- they had found him.

  Fifteen minutes earlier, he had spotted the black SUV trailing discreetly several cars back. He had taken a circuitous route through town hoping the SUV would continue on, but it hadn’t. Its course had mirrored his own and now there was no doubt in his mind ---they had found him.

  His nightmare had begun innocently enough several months ago when he had been contacted by a man who identified himself only as ‘Falcon.’ He claimed to be an Air Force pilot recruited for a program called ‘Indigo Skyfold’ whose purpose was to spray chemtrails of hazardous material into the atmosphere for both weather manipulation and defense purposes.

  Falcon had chosen Carson, believing his status as the number one crime reporter for the Kansas City Star made him the perfect person to expose the government’s covert agenda.

  Like everyone else, Carson had seen the fluffy white ribbons crisscrossing the sky for years and thought nothing of it. Three clandestine meetings with Falcon changed his mind and ultimately, the course of his life.

  The evidence presented by Falcon was so compelling, Carson could smell Pulitzer Prize and pursued every lead given by the pilot.

  The last piece of evidence Carson needed for his story was a sample of the toxic chemical stew purported to contain aluminum oxide, ethylene dibromide and barium.

  A fourth meeting was arranged where Falcon was to deliver a sample of the spray, but he never showed. Carson learned the next day that Falcon had died on the way to their meeting when his brakes conveniently failed resulting in a lethal accident.

  Falcon had told Carson that he and the other pilots in the program had been admonished by superiors that their missions were a matter of national security and any breaches of confidentiality would have dire consequences.

  There was no doubt in Carson’s mind that Falcon’s ‘accident’ was such a consequence, but there was no proof.

  Falcon’s demise wasn’t the only suspicious death associated with the chemtrail conspiracy.

  Carson had enlisted the aid of Walt Williams, a retired police officer who had opened his own private investigation service. Seeking further confirmation of the government’s secret program, Williams had submitted their findings to Frank Katz, a professor at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, who was known to have an interest in the subject.

  Katz was thrilled and proclaimed the new evidence offered by Falcon was the final piece of the puzzle he needed to finish a paper which he planned to submit for publication exposing the government’s secret operation.

  Frank Katz conveniently died of a heart attack before he could publish his final draft.

  Equally perplexing was the disappearance of Louise Shipley, an employee of the chemical giant, Monsanto. This mega-corporation had been mentioned multiple times in the articles Carson had found, linking the company’s development of aluminum resistant seeds to the poisons that had been sprayed and drifted to the earth over the years.

  Shipley had come to Kansas City from Monsanto’s office in St. Louis with information for Carson. Inexplicably, the young whistleblower disappeared the night before their meeting. Three people about to expose government secrets were dead or missing --- coincidence? Carson didn’t think so.

  After the disappearance of Louise Shipley, Carson had gone into hiding. He made one last stop at his apartment and never went back. He withdrew cash from his bank account and destroyed all his credit cards. He tossed his cell phone in a dumpster and bought a burner. He even abandoned his car in an underground garage and bought an old clunker, manufactured before the advent of GPS. He rented a cheap motel room under an assumed name and paid with cash.

  He thought he had covered every possible contingency --- but they had found him.

  As he checked the mirror again, his hand involuntarily went to the two manila envelopes in the seat beside him. One was addressed to Walt Williams and contained every scrap of evidence he had collected about the chemtrail conspiracy. He had decided that should he be caught, someone familiar with the investigation should have the information to continue the battle to expose one of the greatest deceits ever perpetrated on the American people. The other was to Calinda Marchetti.

  He wondered if he had acted too late.

  Then, he saw his opportunity.

  It was five in the afternoon and the going-home traffic had clogged the streets. The SUV was still two cars behind him. Just as he approached a busy intersection, the light turned yellow, then red. Before the cross traffic could pull into the intersection, he hit the accelerator and made an illegal left turn, barely missing an oncoming car.

  He heard the horns of angry drivers, but he didn’t care. The SUV was stuck until the light turned green, and would still have to make an illegal turn.

  He swerved through the traffic and sped ahead until he spotted a multi-story parking garage. He drove inside and wound his way to the third level and pulled into a spot where he could see the traffic on the street below.

  Carson breathed a sigh of relief, as minutes later, the SUV sped past.

  When the SUV was out of sight, he relaxed for a moment and collected his thoughts.

  Somehow, in spite of all his precautions, they were still on to him. He quickly concluded that his only course of action was to leave town, disappear completely, and start a new life somewhere far, far away from Kansas City.

  But first, there was the matter of the two envelopes. He had done everything he could, and now it would be up to Walt Williams to carry on the investigation.

  Looking both ways, he carefully ventured out of the garage and headed to the main post office on Pershing Road across from Union Station.

  He pulled up to the curbside collection box, rolled down his window and slipped the envelopes into the slot.

  Carson felt a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders as he drove back to his motel to collect what was left of his worldly possessions before heading out into the great unknown.

  He took one last look around the room to make sure he was leaving nothing behind. Satisfied, he was about to close the lid to his lone piece of luggage when he heard car doors slam.

  Peeking through the blinds, he saw the black SUV and heard footsteps outside in the hall. Quickly, he ran to the bathroom which faced the opposite side of the motel. He threw open the window hoping to escape, but two men with weapons drawn were covering the back.

  His mind raced, hoping to fin
d a way to freedom, but it only took a moment for him to realize it was over.

  As he heard the door frame splinter, fear and panic turned to resignation.

  He slumped down onto the commode to await his fate.

  CHAPTER 2

  “NO! Absolutely not! There’s no way in hell I’m putting on a dress --- again!”

  I couldn’t believe that Ox, my former partner on the Kansas City Police Force for five years, and Kevin, my new partner in Walt Williams Investigations, would even suggest such a thing.

  Five years ago, as part of an undercover operation, my captain ‘volunteered’ me to pose as a transvestite and frequent the Foxy Lady Lounge, a cross-dresser’s haven that doubled as the headquarters for a nefarious cabal that was trying to take over Northeast Kansas City.

  Although my brief venture into the world of cross dressing was a huge success, I was razzed unmercifully by my fellow officers, and I’m told that embarrassing photos are still adorning the walls of the break room.

  “But Walt,” Ox pleaded, “Phil needs you.”

  “And it’s good for business,” Kevin added.

  A series of muggings at the Foxy Lady had prompted Phil McCrevice, the owner, to seek help from the police.

  The drag bar had been a fixture on Troost Avenue for years, and no one seemed to give a rip about the characters dressed in ladies garments who patronized the place --- until recently.

  The incident that seemed to be responsible for the current attacks was the sensational story of the transitioning of Olympic athlete, Bruce Jenner to Caitlyn Jenner.

  Apparently, the vision of Bruce, Olympic hero, on the Wheaties box, suddenly replaced by the photo of Caitlyn on the cover of Vanity Fair, was just too much to handle for some poor twisted soul.

  After her gender identity was revealed in the Vanity Fair article, Jenner amassed over a million Twitter followers in four hours and three minutes, setting a new Guinness World Record. Four days later, Jenner was up to 2.37 million followers.

  One of them, right here in Kansas City, was upset enough to take out his or her frustration on the patrons of the Foxy Lady.

  Even though I had been retired from the force for almost a year, guess whose name came up when McCrevice asked for help.

  Knowing we were still close friends, the captain had sent Ox as the department’s emissary, hoping he could persuade me to participate in yet another humiliating undercover operation.

  “You’ll be absolutely safe,” he said. “You’ll be wearing a wire and we’ll have eyes on you all the time.”

  “It’s not my safety I’m worried about,” I replied. “It’s my dignity.”

  “Dignity be damned,” Kevin interjected. “It’s a job and a very lucrative one I might add. The department is offering a very handsome consulting fee, and if memory serves me, people aren’t exactly busting down the door to hire two septuagenarian gumshoes.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I replied. “You aren’t the one trying to hobble around in high heels. Besides, it took me a week of shopping at every thrift store in town to find an outfit that didn’t make me look like a bag lady.”

  At that moment, my wife, Maggie, poked her head into the room. Due to budgetary constraints, the office of Walt Williams Investigations was one room in our third floor apartment that also doubled as Maggie’s real estate home office. Needless to say, privacy was practically non-existent.

  “Not a problem. I have your ‘Tina’ outfit safely tucked away. You were so cute, I just couldn’t part with it, so I boxed it up and had Willie store it in the basement. With a little freshening up, it should be good to go.”

  “Swell. Just swell.”

  It seemed that once again, my dignity was about to be sacrificed for the greater good.

  Sometimes Lady Justice can be a cruel mistress.

  The plan was pretty simple. When my transformation to ‘Tina’ was complete, I would simply drive to the bar, hang around for a while and leave. The mugger had attacked his previous victims on the way to their cars or to the bus stop a block away. I would be wearing a wire and both Ox and Kevin would be watching my exit from the bar the whole time. The mugger’s previous victims had been banged up and disparaged, but none were seriously hurt.

  The metamorphosis of a seventy-two year old guy into a drag queen is not a simple process. We began the ordeal mid-day, knowing it would take all afternoon to get me looking halfway presentable.

  Applying the makeup is always the most gruesome part.

  Maggie has a box of cosmetic crap that she doesn’t use anymore, but somehow it’s perfect for me.

  After I shave, the first thing she applies is some brown gunk she calls foundation. It’s supposed to smooth out my complexion and cover any flaws in my skin. I noticed right away that it couldn’t hide my waddle which had sagged significantly since my last transformation five years ago.

  Next, she tackles my eyes. This is the really scary part.

  She starts by ripping my eyebrow hairs out by the roots with a little tweezer thing, then she clamps my lashes with a pair of pliers. After my lashes are curly enough, she smears some blue stuff on my eyelids and comes at me with a sharpened pencil. I always cringe when she says, “Now don’t wiggle or I’ll poke your eye out.”

  Then she applies a dusting of powder so my nose won’t shine. A girl certainly doesn’t want that.

  She finishes me off with a tube of lipstick called Dusty Rose.

  “Here. Blot,” she commands, handing me a tissue.

  Grimacing, she stands back, surveying her work. “That’s about as good as it’s going to get.”

  Just what a girl wants to hear.

  Makeup on, I’m ready to dress.

  The undergarments are the biggest challenge.

  It didn’t take long for me to remember that Tina’s silk undies and pantyhose are like cheap hotels --- no ball room. Mr. Winkie and the boys wasted no time informing me of their discomfort. I just hoped I wouldn’t be singing soprano by the time this gig was over.

  Bras can be tricky. Five years ago, I almost broke my arms trying to hook the damned thing behind my back. Then Maggie taught me the secret, hook in front, rotate to the back. Prior to that time, my experience with bras was primarily focused on unhooking. Now I have expertise in both installation and removal. Not many guys can say that I’ll bet.

  After stuffing the cups with pantyhose to fill out my 34B, I was ready to slip on my dress. I can still remember how difficult it was, picking out just the right dress. I recall standing in front of mirrors asking Maggie if certain dresses made my butt look big. I don’t ever remember caring about how my butt looked when trying on trousers. I guess it’s a girl thing.

  I was pleasantly surprised that the dress still fit after five years. A testament to my healthy lifestyle.

  Next to pantyhose, the shoes are the worst. After much shopping, we found a pair of women’s shoes with two inch heels in my size. For most gals, I’m sure two-inch heels are no problem at all, but for me, it was like wearing ice skates. My ankles turned in and out and I staggered like a drunken sailor. I practiced for half a day before I could perambulate without crippling myself. I was surprised when I put them on this time and discovered I could actually walk. Maybe it’s like riding a bike. Once you learn, it sort of sticks.

  The crowning touch was my wig. Five years ago, I must have tried on a dozen until I found just the right one. Most made me look like Imogene Coca or Phyllis Diller, but I finally found one that gave me just a hint of Tina Turner, hence the name I adopted for my feminine persona.

  The last thing to go on were my earrings. Maggie has pierced ears and there was absolutely no way I was getting my ears pierced. We finally found a pair of big dangly things that were screw on. I just had to be careful not to turn my head too quickly or I would poke out my eye.

  At last, my transformation was complete.

  At the risk of being called a male chauvinist pig, if this is what women must go through every day, I totally understa
nd why they are often testy.

  It was six o’clock when Maggie proclaimed that she had done all she could do. I was ready to roll.

  I was to drive to the Foxy Lady, park a block or so away and just hang out, having a drink or two. If everything went as planned, the perp would accost me on the way to my car and we’d nab his sorry ass.

  Maggie gave me a good-bye kiss and wished me well. As I stepped into the hall, I hoped with every fiber of my being that I could avoid a confrontation with the other residents of my three story building, but it wasn’t to be.

  My dad, John Williams, and his squeeze, Bernice, both 90, live in the two second floor apartments. Jerry the Joker and the Professor live in the two first floor units. Willie, my old friend and maintenance man lives in a studio apartment in the basement.

  As fate would have it, I met Dad and Bernice on the second floor landing.

  We all stopped and just stared at one another for a minute, then I saw a big smile spread across Dad’s face.

  “Holy crap!” he bellowed, falling into a laughing fit.

  “John!” Bernice admonished. “You’re being rude. Why are you laughing at this poor woman?”

  “That’s no woman,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “That’s Walt!”

  Bernice came closer and squinted. “Oh my!” she exclaimed, clutching her chest. She grabbed Dad and the two of them laughed so hard they had to hold on to one another for support.

  Naturally, the commotion brought everyone else into the foyer to see what was going on.

  Dad couldn’t wait to share his glee. “That’s my kid,” he giggled. “Thought I had a son, but looks like I’ve been wrong all these years.”

  Jerry and the Professor were about to add their two cents worth, but I raised my hand in protest.

  “Go ahead and laugh, but for your information, I’m on an undercover operation in co-operation with the Kansas City Police Department. This is serious business.”