"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 20

Saturday, November 13th, 9:20 a.m.

            Det. Mike Cavanaugh exited a large conference room inside the West Hartford Police Department headquarters building. He shook his head in frustration and walked back to his cubicle. Mike had not spoken during the raucous half-hour meeting. He just sat and listened as the upper brass of the WHPD, including the department’s chief and Capt. Bradford, haggled with state police brass over what should be included in a prepared statement to be released to the press. Bradford and the chief argued that the statement should be simple and clear: the crime was being treated as a break-in gone awry, and the fact the victim was a notorious convicted sex offender was purely coincidental. The state police argued the statement had to be more broad this soon after the killing, and should declare no conclusions had been drawn yet and all possibilities were being investigated. However, that would just encourage more of those insane vigilante rumors, Bradford counter-argued. The department had enough problems simply trying to do its job without the added burden of hysterical conspiracy theories and a media frenzy.

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 victim’s 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 captain’s 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 that’s what’s 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.

            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, they’re asking questions now. There was silence, then another roar. Silence, then a roar. Mike shook his head. He didn’t walk away. I bet he’s denying there’s a vigilante, and the more he denies it, the more they ask about it. That 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 would’ve been perfect! he thought. Instead of Paulson, we should’ve sent Capt. Bradford out to give the statement. He would’ve 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 would’ve 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 Mike’s face while waltzing out of the courtroom infuriated him the 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, that’s 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, it’s been a wild morning, hasn’t it, folks? We’ve had a lively discussion during these past four hours, and the only thing you’ve 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.”

            On the other side of town, another man sat at his desk in his office, looked at a radio, and also shook his head. “Damn fool,” Tom Wilkins muttered. “Pit Bull thinks our plan is foolproof, huh? Well, with a fool like him it sure as hell ain’t.”

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