"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 6

Monday, October 25th, 9:30 a.m.

Detective Mike Cavanaugh knocked on an office door inside the headquarters building of the West Hartford Police Department. The stenciled words on the door read: “Capt. Raymond R. Bradford.” A gruff voice inside responded to the knock. “Yeah?”

“It’s Cavanaugh,” the detective said. “I’ve got the preliminary info.”

“Come in,” Bradford said. Cavanaugh entered the office, which was similar to its occupant, meticulous and clean. Cavanaugh often marveled at how neat and tidy Capt. Bradford’s office was, considering the vast amount of paperwork he had to process each day. By comparison, Cavanaugh’s cubicle usually looked like an explosion in a Staples store.

“Well, we’ve interviewed a bunch of Dykes’ friends and coworkers—not that he had a lot of coworkers since he didn’t work too often.” Cavanaugh flipped the pages on a small notebook. “Nobody heard anything, nobody suspected anything, and nobody can think of a single person who might’ve wanted Dykes dead.”

“Yeah, a regular Mother Teresa,” Bradford said sarcastically. “Everyone loved him.”

Cavanaugh smiled. Bradford could be a clever and funny guy. Cavanaugh saw that side of him occasionally. But the captain’s intense personality and frequent outbursts of anger overwhelmed any endearing personality traits he might’ve possessed. Around the department, when an officer thought of Capt. Ray Bradford, the first word to pop into his head was not “comedian.” It was more likely to be “jerk,” or a profane synonym.

“But here’s the weird thing, Captain,” Cavanaugh continued. “All of his friends freely admitted Dykes was a drunk. They all figured he would die early, wrapped around a tree somewhere. But every single one of them—including the girl he lived with—insisted that he never did drugs. They said he hated drugs…pot, coke, pills, all of it. He had that kind of redneck thing going, you know, a good ol’ boy drinker, yeah, but never drugs. He wouldn’t even accept a free drink from anyone who used drugs—and he was always looking for free drinks. So, it’s kinda weird he had cocaine on him.”

The captain didn’t seem too impressed or interested in this information. “Well, his friends could be covering for him. Or themselves.”

“Yeah…maybe.”

“Or he could’ve been selling the stuff to make money, but never used it himself, like some dealers do.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” Cavanaugh said, “he wasn’t a very good businessman. The guy barely had enough money for shots and beer. Pretty much lived off his girlfriend’s income.”

“Hmm…” Bradford grunted. “Lots of people are lousy businessmen. Look at us. We became cops. Makes us a couple of financial geniuses, doesn’t it?”

Cavanaugh suppressed a laugh. The captain could be a pleasant guy, if he wanted. But it seemed he never wanted. Cavanaugh was convinced the atmosphere around the WHPD could be so much better if Bradford would only lighten up a little and show his funny, personable side once in a while. He still could be a really good cop, but at the same time he also could be a really good guy. I know he’s capable of being human, Cavanaugh often thought, but he just doesn’t seem to give a damn about that.

“Well, continue to work with the state police,” Bradford said. “If you get a clear lead on a possible shooter, track him down. But don’t knock yourself out.”

“Captain, uh, we have a murder in a residential neighborhood,” Cavanaugh said. “Don’t you think the townspeople will be expecting, uh, I mean, don’t you think we ought to…”

“Look,” Bradford interrupted, “when a woman and her two daughters get raped and killed in their own home, that’s murder. When someone’s driving home from the supermarket and a drunk driver plows into the car head-on, that’s murder.” Bradford paused and gazed out the window for a moment, his jaw becoming noticeably clenched. He took a deep breath and looked Cavanaugh in the eyes. “This thing here?” Bradford said, “We have a serial D.U.I. punk, a lazy, unemployed bum who is now dead and off the roads. I’m not shedding any tears for this guy. And I’m not authorizing lots of PD resources and overtime for a major investigation. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Cavanaugh replied. “You got it. When I get the toxicology report from the lab I’ll let you know what his blood alcohol level was, and whether he had any cocaine in his system.”

“Fine,” Bradford said curtly. He then opened a manila folder on his desk and began reading. As far as the captain was concerned, the meeting was over and Cavanaugh no longer was present inside the office. I hate when he does this, Cavanaugh thought as he stood there feeling awkward. He quietly exited the office.

“Man, that guy is a piece of work,” Cavanaugh muttered while walking back to his cubicle. It’s almost like he wants people to dislike him, he said to himself. Cavanaugh thought back to a time, at least 15 years earlier, when Bradford, then Sergeant Bradford, was both a good cop and a likeable guy. But that was before the accident.

Back when both police officers were in their early 30s, Sergeant Ray Bradford was a rising star on the police force. Dedicated, hard-working, smart, he was sure to become a captain one day, maybe even chief. Bradford was a dedicated family man, too. He had a lovely wife and two young daughters. His was the classic all-American, suburban family.

Then one day in mid-December, just after dusk, Bradford’s wife was driving home from the grocery store. The three-year-old daughter was securely strapped in a car-seat in back; the six-year-old was in the front seat next to her mother. As their Ford Escort drove along South Main Street in West Hartford, a Chevy Impala swerved across the center line and hit Mrs. Bradford’s car head-on. The driver of the Impala was a 35-year-old insurance agent, heading home after a Christmas office party. He was quite inebriated.

The six-year-old girl in the front seat died instantly. The toddler in the back seat was banged up but OK. Mrs. Bradford sustained severe injuries to her head and chest. She lingered in the Intensive Care Unit of St. Francis Hospital in Hartford for about a week before finally passing away. She never regained consciousness. The driver of the Impala walked away from the crash without a scratch.

Mike Cavanaugh was a patrolmen at the time. He didn’t know Sgt. Bradford too well, but what he did know of him he liked. After the accident, Bradford became a different person. The deaths of his wife and daughter just devastated him.

Few members on the force these days were around back then. The younger guys just assume Capt. Bradford was born a jerk. However, Det. Cavanaugh was old enough to remember. He understood that the captain’s cold, distant, and anti-social personality was not inbred; it developed only after his all-American, suburban family was shattered.

One of the side effects of Bradford’s altered personality was a burning hatred toward anyone who dared to get behind the wheel of a motor vehicle after drinking. For many years he volunteered to work Saturday night sobriety checkpoints, and not a few drivers arrested for D.U.I. woke up the next morning in the WHPD holding cell with more than a hang over. The lumps and bruises were explained away with a shrug and the comment: “You musta stumbled and hit your head when we put you in the cell last night.” A few expensive out-of-court settlements put an end to that rough and tumble practice.

When the drunk driver who destroyed Bradford’s family was given a slap on the wrist—a fine, probation, and loss of driver’s license for two years—Bradford was livid. He began to follow the man around town. “Stalking” was the word used by the man’s attorney when he filed a complaint with the Police Department. Eventually Bradford was given a mild reprimand for harassing the man, which incensed him even further. The man finally moved out of state, mostly to get away from Bradford’s hateful gaze. This hatred for drunk drivers prompted Bradford to suggest the vigilante group’s first target, and to volunteer to conduct the group’s first “mission.”

Det. Cavanaugh sat at his messy desk, in his even messier cubicle, and asked himself, How would I react if my family were suddenly destroyed? Then he cringed, realizing that he had been using that same word—destroyed—whenever he thought about his family. He never failed to get a sinking feeling of despair deep in his gut whenever he thought about that fateful day almost four years earlier when his wife of 16 years, Susan, came home from work and announced matter-of-factly that she wanted a divorce. Two days later Susan and their two children, Mike Jr., age 14, and Sarah, age 11, were on a flight to Phoenix, where they moved in with Susan’s sister. In the four years since his marriage dissolved, Cavanaugh had seen his kids exactly five times.

Whenever Cavanaugh thought about his ex-wife and kids, thousands of miles away in Arizona, his whole countenance sank. He had thrown many spur-of-the-moment pity parties for himself during the past four years. Now, having gone from mild annoyance at Bradford to major self pity in a matter of moments, brought on by the mere thought of his children, the following thought actually ran through his head: Well, at least Bradford still has one kid. Both of mine are gone.

The instant Cavanaugh completed that thought, he shook his head, ashamed of himself for even thinking such a thing. Bradford’s wife and daughter were dead, tragically killed in a head-on collision. His ex-wife and children were very much alive, and that, of course, made a huge difference.

Then Det. Cavanaugh thought about Bradford’s surviving daughter, Tina. She was a toddler at the time of the accident, and over the years the girl was the only thing that could bring a smile to Bradford’s face. Bradford’s sister in a nearby town helped a great deal in raising the child, but it was Bradford himself who did most of the cooking and cleaning and checking of homework. He was practically a model parent. For as rude and cold and mean he was at work, he was just as much kind and caring and thoughtful with Tina. Bradford acted as if Tina was the only thing that made life worth living, because in fact for him, she was.

Cavanaugh remembered that a couple months earlier Capt. Bradford was in an especially foul mood. One of the other officers explained the situation. Bradford had just moved Tina, now age 18, into the freshmen dorms at Central Connecticut State University. Although New Britain was only 15 minutes away, Bradford was crushed that his little girl, the only connection to his once all-American, suburban family—the only person on the planet that made him feel human—was grown up and no longer living under his roof. Everyone at the WHPD walked on egg shells that week.

(Return to "Purge the Evil" home page)

©2009