[Lady Justice 07] - Lady Justice and the Vigilante Read online

  He graduated with a degree in computer science and moved to the Silicon Valley in California.

  The strong emotional ties that bind many fathers and sons just weren’t there and when Martha died so did the bonds that held the family together.

  Ed and his son stayed in touch at first, but as time passed the contacts grew farther apart.

  After one brief conversation, Ed recalled the words to the old Harry Chapin song, The Cats In The Cradle.

  And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me

  He'd grown up just like me. My boy was just like me

  Ed Jacobs was alone.

  His career was over.

  At the age of sixty-five he had no goals or dreams, nothing to make him jump out of bed in the morning and greet the new day with enthusiasm and purpose.

  Nothing --- until now.

  On that long drive from the courthouse to his home, the rage that had become resolve, suddenly took on form and substance.

  As he drove, he felt an excitement growing inside him that he hadn’t felt in years.

  By the time he pulled into his garage, all of the qualities that had driven Ed Jacobs over the years, all of the drive that had made him successful were awakened and focused on one goal.

  Ed Jacobs knew what he had to do.

  Ed was meticulous and thorough.

  As a young finish carpenter, he had learned the virtues of patience and careful planning.

  The miters in his crown molding were so precise it looked like one continuous piece of wood.

  He knew if he was going to embark on this new journey, he must prepare or he would fail.

  What he was contemplating was so far removed from his past life he hardly knew where to begin.

  Then one day as he was researching related topics on the Internet, there was a reference to a movie he remembered seeing years ago, Death Wish.

  The 1974 movie starred Charles Bronson as Paul Kersey, an architect whose wife had been brutally murdered and whose daughter had been raped.

  When police efforts to apprehend the attackers produced no results, Kersey took matters into his own hands and began a vendetta against the criminal element of New York.

  Ed rented the movie at Blockbuster and was spellbound as he watched Paul Kersey wage his personal war against crime.

  After watching it once, he rewound it and watched it a second time taking detailed notes.

  The rage and resolve that Kersey felt after the brutal assault of his family, mirrored his own feelings as he watched LeShawn Grimes make a mockery of the justice system.

  He was surprised at the satisfaction and sense of fulfillment he experienced as he watched Kersey blow away the scum of New York.

  But the thing that he noticed most was that Kersey made mistakes --- at lot of them that resulted in him being injured and becoming the focus of a police investigation into the random killings.

  While Ed wanted justice and maybe even revenge, he certainly didn’t want to wind up in jail or even worse, stabbed or shot.

  He vowed not to make the same mistakes that Paul Kersey had made.

  He believed with all his heart that what drove Grimes to commit the atrocities could not be fixed.

  He had come to terms with the fact that LeShawn Grimes must die.

  He just had to do it smarter.

  He made a list of the mistakes that Kersey had made.

  When the killings started, police looked for family members of victims of recent crimes.

  That certainly made sense, but he was not a part of the Martin’s family and really, not even a close friend. He should be all right there.

  The cops knew that the vigilante was a good shot and immediately looked for family members with military backgrounds.

  Ed’s age made him one of the ‘in-between-ers’. He was too young for the Korean War and too old for Vietnam. He had never served in the military.

  So far, so good.

  Next, the police narrowed the search to men living in the geographical area where the victims were shot.

  Fortunately, Grimes had come across town to do his dirty work and when he would die, it would be on his own turf, not the Martin’s neighborhood.

  Kersey roamed the city streets in his fancy clothes, using himself as bait.

  Ed had no intention of being close to any of these scumbags.

  At the age of sixty-five, he was a fit one hundred and eighty pounds, but he didn’t kid himself into believing he was a match for a twenty year old dope head high on PCP.

  Kersey’s killings were random, but he used the same .32 revolver each time, tipping the police that they were dealing with a single shooter.

  Ed had some weapons, but he knew he must get more.

  Kersey didn’t bother to hide his identity and it was inevitable that there would be a witness to identify him.

  Ed knew that he must become a master of disguise.

  Ed’s first stop was his basement storeroom.

  He knew that somewhere amid the boxes of old books, Christmas decorations and photo albums there was a gun case containing his old deer rifle.

  He had been an avid hunter in his youth, but once he started his own construction company there had been no time for such frivolity.

  On the shelf that held the gun case, he also found his old metal cartridge box filled with cartridges and his Hoppes gun cleaning kit.

  As he unzipped the case and felt the cold steel of the barrel, memories of the hunts on his grandfather’s farm flashed in his mind.

  He remembered the pride he had felt when he bagged his first deer and his grandpa’s look of approval when he had nailed the coyote that had been eating his chickens.

  This time, he would be hunting game of a more deadly nature.

  The years in the basement had taken their toll and the blue-steel barrel was covered with a fine coat of rust.

  He found rags and steel wool and with the solvent and oil in his kit, went to work.

  The old gun was a Japanese 6.5 mm bolt action that he had bought at a used gun store fifty years ago.

  He had looked at the more expensive Winchesters and Remington’s, but the old World War II relic was all he could afford.

  Now he was glad.

  The old gun would be untraceable.

  Next, he thought about how to hide his identity.

  He shopped several thrift stores and picked out clothing that was totally foreign to his usual wardrobe, including several hats of different styles.

  His last stop was the Kansas City Costume Company at 20th and Grand.

  He left with a bag containing mustaches, beards eyebrows and wigs of various colors.

  As he was driving home, he thought of the bags of old clothing and disguises and especially the rifle.

  In the unlikely event that something unknown and unforeseen should lead the police to his door, these things should not be on the premises.

  He headed to a public storage facility that he knew on Holmes Road and rented a 5 x 10 unit at the back of the lot.

  Over the next few days, he equipped the unit with an old second hand dresser and mirror that he had picked up at a garage sale, a battery powered lantern and a small kerosene heater.

  This would be his base of operations.

  When he was certain that he had everything he needed to complete the task at hand, he was ready for the next phase --- find LeShawn Grimes.

  It wasn’t as if he was starting the search completely cold.

  The trial had garnered a great deal of publicity and newspaper articles written by investigative reporters told of Grimes usual haunts.

  Grimes stomping grounds was reported to be the Paseo corridor between Independence Avenue and Truman Road.

  His mother lived in the Charlie Parker Square apartments at 12th and Paseo, and Grimes was known to frequent the bars and dives along Independence Ave.

  Ed’s first trip to the area was an eye opener.

  Small groups of young thugs lounged in doorways and alleys and hooker
s paraded their wares under the dim streetlights.

  He soon discovered that his shiny 2010 Lexus drew way too much attention and he beat a hasty retreat.

  The next day he found a turd-brown 1994 Toyota Corolla on Craig’s list for $1,400.00.

  After a bit of haggling, he drove it away for $1,000.00 cash.

  The next night, he dressed in clothing appropriate for the owner of such a vehicle and with a ball cap pulled low on his head cruised Independence Avenue looking for his prey.

  On the third night, he spotted him leaving A J’s Bar.

  Grimes climbed into the car of a friend and Ed followed them to the Charlie Parker Square apartments.

  Grimes entered the building and by two A.M. it was obvious that he was bunking, at least for now, with his mother.

  Ed watched Grimes for a week and the same pattern was repeated night after night with Grimes arriving at the apartment at varying times.

  Ed had driven every block around the apartment numerous times and as he surveyed the lay of the land, a plan began to take form.

  The Paseo was a divided roadway with a twenty foot wide green strip separating the north and southbound lanes.

  Concrete pillars joined by a three-foot concrete fence had been constructed in the green strip to form a grotto of sorts.

  Undoubtedly, the original intention of this structure was for artistic purposes, but the floor of the grotto was littered with cigarette butts and beer cans and the columns were covered with graffiti.

  Traffic was sparse along Paseo at the hours that Grimes returned to the apartment and Ed figured he could lie on the floor of the grotto in the shadows.

  He could park the old Toyota a half a block away on a side street and be out of the neighborhood before anyone could call the cops.

  He had made the preparations.

  He had done his homework.

  He had formulated a plan.

  Now all that was left was the execution.

  In the days after the trial, after his initial passion had cooled, Ed thought long and hard about what he was about to do.

  He wasn’t a violent man. He had never even struck another human being in anger.

  Although he had been a hunter and killed rabbits, squirrels and deer, his desire to hunt had waned over the years and as he grew older, the taking of life had lost its appeal.

  Now, he was contemplating taking the life of another human being.

  Though not a religious man by nature, Ed had a strong sense of right and wrong and his moral compass had always been pointed in the right direction.

  More than once he was ready to chuck the whole idea, but then the image of Grimes mocking poor Beth Martin would fill his head and his resolve would become even stronger.

  In lighter moments, he compared what he was about to do to skydiving.

  You could take classes. You could learn to pack a parachute. You could even go up in the plane, but at anytime up until that moment when you step out into the void, you could call the whole thing off.

  Once you leap, there is no turning back.

  Ed thought of this as he made his final preparations.

  It was not too late.

  He could sell the old Toyota. He could give the clothing back to the thrift store and put the rifle back on the basement shelf.

  Once he pulled the trigger, there would be no turning back.

  The next day Ed spent the morning pouring over family photo albums.

  Pictures of himself and Martha enjoying the last years of their life together brought tears to his eyes.

  He missed her so much.

  He knew that he would do anything to bring her back. He knew that he would gladly give his life for her.

  As he looked into her happy eyes in the photos, he wondered how he would feel if it had been Martha and not Beth Martin who had been ravaged at the hands of LeShawn Grimes.

  He wondered how many more women would be scarred for the rest of their lives because this sociopath had slipped through the cracks of the legal system.

  With a calm assurance he had not felt before, he placed the albums back in their boxes and climbed into the old brown Toyota.

  By eleven o’clock, Ed was lying on his stomach peering through the uprights in the concrete fence.

  The 6.5 mm was lying by his side.

  He calculated that the shot would be about fifty yards. He had certainly made longer ones, but aiming through the shadows under the dim streetlights would be difficult.

  He had no idea when or even if, Grimes would show up.

  Patience was a virtue for a hunter.

  He recalled his hunting days when he would get up hours before dawn and sit in his tree stand shivering in the bitter cold waiting for a buck to pass close enough for a shot.

  This wait would be a piece of cake.

  Once, he thought that the game was over when two young punks walked within twenty feet of where he was hiding, but they passed by, laughing and talking, totally unaware of his presence.

  Finally, at one-thirty in the morning, a car pulled to the curb and LeShawn Grimes climbed out.

  He shouted some parting words to the driver then leaned in and did one of those hand slapping, knuckle-knocking things that hoods do.

  The car sped away and Grimes stood at the curb looking up and down the street.

  Apparently he decided to have one last smoke before turning in and Ed saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes.

  He saw the flare of the match and the glow of the ash as he inhaled deeply.

  Then, in the glow of the streetlight Ed saw Grimes reach into his pocket again, only this time his hand held a small revolver.

  He broke open the cylinder to check his load, and then snapped it shut and placed it back in his pocket.

  As Ed Jacobs lined up his shot, he wondered how many people would be spared pain, degradation and humiliation at the hands of this animal because of what he was about to do next.

  As he slowly squeezed the trigger he whispered, “This is for you, Beth.”

  LeShawn Grimes dropped to the ground and Ed Jacobs believed with all his heart that justice had been served.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Dirty Harry, of course! He was the best!”

  That was the answer my partner, Ox, had given to the rhetorical question, ‘who was the best cop ever’?

  When the majority of your days are spent cruising the streets of Kansas City, rousting drunks and breathing exhaust fumes while directing traffic around an accident, you invent ways to pass the time and take your mind off the degenerate who had just puked in your back seat.

  So, quite often, weighty subjects such as ‘who was the sexiest woman’ or ‘where can you find the best pizza’ filled the void in our humdrum day.

  I realized that Ox had hit the nail on the head with the Clint Eastwood character and our conversation drifted to a rehash of Inspector Callahan’s exploits.

  “So what’s your favorite Dirty Harry line?” I asked.

  Ox thought for a minute, “It’s gotta be the one where the bank robber is deciding whether Harry’s gun is empty and Harry says, ‘But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?’”

  “That was a good one all right,” I replied, “but my favorite is when Harry’s boss asked him how he knew the guy he took down was a perp and Harry answered, ‘When a naked man is chasing a woman through an alley with a butcher's knife and a hard-on, I figure he isn't out collecting for the Red Cross!’”

  Ox roared, “A butcher knife and a hard-on! I’d forgotten about that one! Then there’s always the classic, ‘Go ahead, punk. Make my day!’”

  Hearing that line brought a smile to my face.

  Mary Murphy, the seventy-three year old manager of my flophouse, the Three Trails Hotel, had used it more than once.

  She had the sneer. She had the stare, and when she waved
her thirty-six inch Hillrich & Bradsby baseball bat in the face of an obstinate tenant and spit out those words, he paid attention.

  Ox’s continued patter brought me out of my reverie. “Eastwood played some other cool characters. I loved him as Philo Beddoe in Every Which Way But Loose. That monkey he hung around with was a real hoot!”

  “It wasn’t a monkey. It was an orangutan.”

  “Picky, picky. And what about that goofy motorcycle gang? Do you remember what their name was?”

  “Black Widows, I think. Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was the Black Widows.”

  Ox slowed the cruiser down to a crawl. “Speaking of motorcycle gangs, I wonder what’s going down over there.”

  We had been cruising Prospect Avenue and Ox was pointing to the Tool Shed Lounge, a known biker bar.

  There were at least twenty Harleys lined up in the parking lot and one lone police cruiser.

  “Do ya think we ought to check it out? Those odds don’t look very good.”

  “Can’t hurt,” I replied. “It’s not like we’re on our way to something more important.”

  We parked the cruiser and entered the dim, smoky underbelly of the Tool Shed Lounge.

  When our eyes had adjusted to the low light, we saw a lone officer weighing maybe a buck thirty, confronting a huge mountain of flesh twice the officer’s size.

  I whispered to Ox, “Isn’t that Marvin Mercer?”

  Ox squinted and then nodded, “Yep, that’s Blackie!”

  A year before, Ox and I had been assigned to serve a warrant on Marvin ‘Blackie’ Mercer.

  The idiot had fled on his bike and we chased him for blocks before another cruiser blocked his path and he crashed into the bay of an Earl Shine paint shop.

  Over the ‘thump, thump’ coming from the jukebox, we heard the officer bark. “Marvin Mercer, there’s an outstanding warrant for your arrest. I’m taking you into custody. Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

  Blackie stared incredulously at the figure before him, then suddenly burst into laughter.