"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 23

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

            Sergeant Rich Vibberts knocked on the edge of Det. Mike Cavanaugh’s cubicle. “Got a minute?” he asked.

            “Sure, Vibbs. What’s 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 what’s 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, that’s 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.

            “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 doesn’t use a false name. And I gotta tell you, he’s got some pretty strong opinions about the moral state of our nation.”

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

            “Well, he’s convinced the deviants and criminals and godless hordes are now running the county—and ruining the country in the process.”

            Mike grunted again. “You and I kinda think that way too sometimes, don’t we, Vibbs?”

            The sergeant smiled, then continued. “Anyway, Waller also wrote that our entire American way of life is going down the toilet, and we’re 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 exactly…how?”

            “Well, he didn’t come right out and threaten violence, if that’s what you mean,” Vibberts said. “But he did post long essays—you might call them rants—about 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?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking, Vibbs,” Mike answered with a sigh. “I’m thinking that maybe I’ve 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 I’m 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 don’t 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 he’ll 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. Bradford’s 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 cops occasionally express frustration about their unreasonable captain, but he never wanted them to lose sight of the chain-of-command and the need to show respect and follow orders. It was a fine line Mike walked, and he walked it fairly well, which earned him the respect of the younger cops.

            Before he finished rapping three quick knocks on the door, Det. Mike heard a loud, “What?” come from inside Capt. Bradford’s office.

            “It’s Cavanaugh,” Mike said. “I’ve got the latest updates on the investigation.”

            “Come in,” Bradford mutter. Mike was correct; the captain was in an especially foul mood—even for  him. It was becoming more and more stressful for the man to juggle his polar-opposite missions. One the one hand, Bradford was overseeing three separate murder investigations. The State Police, not to mention the media and local community, were exerting enormous pressure to solve the crimes quickly. On the other hand, Bradford was the mastermind and architect of all three killings, so solving the crimes obviously was the last thing he really wanted to see happen.

            Capt. Bradford also was none too happy that wild speculation was swirling throughout the community that the murders were actually the work of a righteous vigilante. And that “loud-mouth idiot,” Bradford’s personal pet name for his fellow conspirator, Pit Bull Peterson, was doing a lot of the speculating and swirling.

            From the start Bradford had wanted the work of the secret group to appear as though criminals were gunning each other down. Besides permanently removing from society some truly bad apples, Bradford calculated the rise in violent crime would produce outrage in the community. Law-abiding citizens no longer would turn a blind eye and tolerate the less-than-noble behavior of their neighbors and co-workers, and begin 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 Bradford’s 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 didn’t 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 chase—things 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.

            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 didn’t even have any suspects.

            At the conclusion of Mike’s summary, Capt. Bradford nodded and waved his hand. Mike was dismissed. Before turning to leave the office, he paused. He really didn’t want to bring up the subject, but he thought he had to. He cleared his throat with a forced cough, then said, “Um, Captain, there’s one other thing.”

            Bradford looked up and peered icily into Mike’s eyes. “What?” he said in a tone of voice that made Mike gulp involuntarily.

            “Well, sir,” Mike began, “I know you don’t want to hear this, and I agree with you one-hundred percent. But I’m afraid all this talk—all this stupid talk—about a, a vigilante, is not gonna go away. So I know it’s 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 wouldn’t be anything official or very detailed—and I wouldn’t divert any department resources—but just something so we could tell the Staties and media and the politicians that we’re investigating every possibility.”

            Bradford took a deep breath. His face regained it’s 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 wasn’t 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 that’s 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 didn’t 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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