Page 24
He locked his apartment door behind him, sliding the deadbolt into place with practiced precision.
Another evening patrol completed, another night with no suitable targets encountered.
The disappointment settled in his chest like a physical weight as he hung his windbreaker on the hook beside the door, its beige fabric unremarkable, forgettable—exactly as intended.
His thoughts returned to the litterbug from Jefferson Park earlier that day, the man who had so casually discarded his trash beside rather than inside the receptacle.
Such blatant disregard for community standards deserved consequence.
Perhaps not execution—he maintained standards, after all—but something.
A lesson. He regretted now not following the man, not learning his name and address for future reference.
Santiago Heights could only be restored one correction at a time, and he had allowed an opportunity to slip away.
The apartment greeted him with familiar silence, its spare furnishings arranged with mathematical precision.
No clutter, no excess, nothing unnecessary.
The living room contained a single armchair positioned for optimal viewing of both the television and the front door, a small side table bearing a reading lamp and notepad, and bookshelves lined with volumes organized by subject matter rather than author or title.
No decorative touches softened the space—no paintings, no photographs, nothing personal displayed for casual observers.
The walls, however, told a different story.
Newspaper clippings covered the far wall in neat rows, each article precisely trimmed and mounted on black cardstock before being affixed to the wall with removable adhesive.
The collection represented years of methodical documentation—crime reports from Santiago Heights, court summaries, case dispositions.
Many featured familiar names, cases he had personally transcribed during his twenty-three years as a courthouse stenographer, watching justice fail time after time from his silent position beside the judge's bench.
His finger traced the headline of an article about Rodriguez's death, satisfaction warming him at the memory of the dealer's final moments.
The confession had been particularly detailed, Rodriguez's hand trembling as he documented the customers he had purposely addicted, the children whose lives he had knowingly destroyed.
Justice, finally delivered after the system had repeatedly failed.
He moved to the kitchen, his evening routine unfolding with practiced efficiency.
Clean glass from the dish drainer. Filtered water, precisely twelve ounces.
Two precisely measured ounces of bourbon from the bottle kept in the freezer—his single daily indulgence.
No ice. The ritual was comforting in its consistency, a counterpoint to the unpredictable nature of his mission.
The sound pierced his contemplation—a woman's voice, shrill with anger, emanating from the apartment building across the narrow alley that separated their structures.
Santiago Heights' aging architecture and poor insulation made privacy a luxury few residents enjoyed, particularly on mild evenings when windows remained open.
He had learned to filter such intrusions over the years, to ignore the countless domestic squabbles and late-night arguments that provided the neighborhood's nocturnal soundtrack.
But something in this voice arrested his attention—recognition. He placed his glass on the counter and moved silently to his kitchen window, opening it wider to better capture the sounds.
"You worthless piece of shit!" The woman's voice carried clearly now. "I told you to have dinner ready when I got home! How hard is that to understand?"
A quieter voice responded, too low to distinguish the words, but the placating tone was unmistakable. A husband attempting to defuse his wife's rage.
The crash of breaking glass followed, then a man's cry of pain.
"You think I want to hear your excuses?" the woman continued, her voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "After I've been working all day while you sit around this apartment? I should have listened to my mother. She told me you were useless."
He leaned closer to the window, curiosity transforming into focused interest as he identified the source.
The Henderson apartment, third floor of the building opposite his.
Carolyn Henderson—Santiago Heights Neighborhood Association president, community organizer, vocal advocate for domestic violence awareness.
The same Carolyn Henderson who organized fundraisers for the women's shelter downtown, who spoke passionately at community meetings about protecting vulnerable families.
The sound of an impact reached him—flesh striking flesh—followed by another masculine cry.
"Next time I tell you to do something, you do it," Carolyn hissed, the threat explicit in her tone. "Or I swear to God, Robert, you'll regret it more than you do right now."
A slow smile spread across his face, appreciation for the universe's perfect irony warming him like fine liquor.
Carolyn Henderson, public champion of the abused, private perpetrator of the very violence she claimed to fight.
The hypocrisy was exquisite, perfect—a performance of virtue concealing genuine vice.
How many community members had been deceived by her carefully constructed persona?
How many resources had been misdirected based on her apparently selfless advocacy?
He returned to the kitchen, retrieving his bourbon and carrying it to the living room, where he settled into his armchair.
His mind raced with possibilities, with the perfect symmetry of this development.
Henderson certainly qualified for judgment—her hypocrisy was not merely personal failing but public deception, her abuse not just private sin but a mockery of everything she claimed to stand for.
The Henderson apartment went quiet eventually, the argument apparently concluded or at least paused.
He sat motionless, listening to the ambient sounds of Santiago Heights at night—distant sirens, occasional shouts, the persistent bass from someone's car stereo thumping blocks away.
His thoughts organized themselves with familiar precision, considering angles, approaches, optimal timing.
He would need to wait, of course. Midnight, at minimum, when the neighborhood settled into its restless version of sleep.
When Robert Henderson would likely be unconscious, unable to interfere with justice.
When Carolyn might be vulnerable to the same surprise she had used against Marcus Rodriguez, Anthony Rivera, and James Murray.
His notebook appeared in his hands, retrieved from the drawer in the side table without conscious thought.
The pen moved across the page with practiced efficiency, documenting this new development, building the case against Carolyn Henderson.
The notes were meticulous—date, time, specific quotes, details of sounds heard.
Evidence gathering, just as he'd been trained.
The courthouse had taught him the importance of precision, of documentation, of building an irrefutable case.
Those skills served a higher purpose now.
After completing his initial notes, he rose and moved to the bedroom.
The closet door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing clothing as unremarkable as the man who wore it—neutral colors, basic styles, nothing memorable.
But behind the hanging garments, a panel in the wall slid aside when pressed, revealing a shallow compartment containing his tools of justice.
The gun rested on a small velvet cloth—a .
38 revolver, chosen specifically because it left no casings at crime scenes.
Beside it lay the voice modulator, a technological investment that had proved its worth repeatedly by rendering his voice unrecognizable to potential witnesses or victims. Gloves, custom-crafted confession paper, spare ammunition—everything meticulously maintained, precisely arranged.
He lifted the revolver, checking the cylinder with practiced movements.
Each chamber contained a round, though he typically needed only one.
Economy of force, precision of application—these principles guided his work.
He cleaned the weapon weekly regardless of whether it had been fired, the ritual both practical maintenance and symbolic purification.
The voice modulator required battery verification.
He tested it briefly, speaking a single word into the device and listening to the distorted, mechanical sound it produced.
The technology transformed his ordinary voice into something otherworldly, something that inspired the proper fear and respect in those facing judgment.
It separated his everyday identity from his role as justice's instrument—a necessary compartmentalization.
Replacing everything in the hidden compartment, he slid the panel closed and returned to the living room.
Anticipation hummed beneath his skin, the familiar electricity that preceded rendering judgment.
Carolyn Henderson would face accountability for her hypocrisy, for her abuse, for her performance of virtue while committing private sin.
Her confession would reveal the truth she had so carefully hidden from the community.
Her execution would remove another predator from Santiago Heights.
He sipped his bourbon slowly, savoring both the liquor and the anticipation.
Three hours until midnight. Three hours to prepare, to plan, to ensure perfect execution.
His thoughts turned to practical considerations—Henderson's build (slight but wiry), potential resistance (minimal given the element of surprise), optimal approach (rear entrance to their building, service stairwell to third floor, lock picking rather than forced entry).
Justice walked Santiago Heights with quiet footsteps, with unremarkable appearance, with forgettable features. Three hours from now, it would visit Carolyn Henderson, exposing her hypocrisy with a confession written in her own hand before delivering the sentence her crimes demanded.
He smiled into the darkness of his apartment, pleased with the universe's perfect symmetry. The protector revealed as predator. The advocate exposed as abuser. The final, irrefutable evidence that appearances meant nothing, that true justice required seeing beyond facades to the reality beneath.
Three hours. The time would pass quickly in preparation. And then, justice would be served once more.