Page 90 of Precise Justice

All day I have been wondering if it has happened again. As soon as I woke up this morning, I tried to think about what I did last night. Cynthia was not here; she stayed at her parents’ house last night so I couldn’t ask her.

Am I doing this? Am I losing my mind? I must admit, I kind of blamed Dr. Miller but I don’t think I hated him for what he did. Or did I? Maybe I did and I don’t know. What am I doingthat I can’t remember?

Dr. Phillip Friedman, the esteemed professor of psychiatry at the University of Minnesota Medical School, rode the elevator by himself. It was almost midnight, Tuesday, January 28th. Tuesday was always a late night. He set aside time each Tuesday night to work on his latest writing project, a book on transgender psychiatry. How to diagnose it, help patients come to accept it and treating them after the process is complete.

The University Press had obtained a one hundred thousand dollar advance from a New York publisher. Friedman was proudly ahead of schedule to deliver the first draft manuscript.

The last week of January and, as was normal, the coldest of the year. Already minus fourteen outside and the temperature would not reach a positive number for several days.

The elevator came to a stop in the heated, underground parking garage. When Friedman reached his car, he noticed that the light next to it was out. One light out made that area quite dark. No matter, they will fix it tomorrow.

Suddenly, sensing the movement before seeing the object, Friedman turned to his left. From behind a large, square, concrete support beam, a dark shape suddenly appeared. A completely covered monster. In a flash, Friedman knew it was over. Frantically he turned back to his car and tried to open the door.

“Anybody check the video?” Lt. Owen Jefferson asked.

“Yeah, the broad is,” Detective Clyde Johnson answered.

The door of the elevator opened at that moment and Jefferson asked, “The what?”

“Oh, sorry, Lieutenant Woke. I meant Detective Donner is checking the video,” Johnson said.

“You’re a dinosaur, Johnson. You know that?” Jefferson asked.

“Yep, and proud of it.”

“So go find a tar pit and lie down in it.”

“Two more years,” Johnson said. Meaning two more years to max out his pension.

The two men silently walked down the ramp to the crime scene. Uniformed police had sealed off the area directing angry drivers with reserved parking away, most of whom were doctors, some with the ‘don’t you know who I am’ attitude.

“Dr. Benny, good morning,” Jefferson said to the on scene pathologist from the M.E. office. “What do we have?”

Dr. Buraid ‘Benny’ Shambhani was leaning over the body next to the new Lexus. Without looking up, Benny replied, “And a good morning to you, Owen.”

Benny then stood up, gestured Jefferson to follow him and walked away. When he had gone far enough to not be overheard, he stopped.

“Remember the nurse at the middle school a few weeks ago?” he asked Jefferson.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Jefferson answered.

“And the surgeon, Walter Miller? We got a serial, Owen. It looks like the same weapon. I’ll know more when we get him downtown. Looks like the same three-inch, straight claw hammer,” Benny whispered.

“Shit,” Jefferson quietly said. “Okay, let me know as soon as you’re sure.”

“Of course,” Benny said.

They went back to the body and found Detective Johnson’s partner there, Detective Shelby Donner.

“See anything?” Jefferson asked her.

“Great shot of our perp,” she replied. “Fully covered in a large rain poncho. Strings pulled the hood tight. Wearing a covering of some type over his face, ski goggles and gloves with duct tape wrapped around the wrist.

“Watched him walk all the way out to the sidewalk and gone.”

“The poncho would be for the spray,” Johnson said.

“The poncho would be for the spray,” Jefferson repeated in agreement.

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