Page 92 of Precise Justice

“Who found him?” Jefferson asked.

“The bar’s cleaning crew. Showed up around six, six fifteen and saw the car by itself in the lot, which, by itself is not terribly unusual. They checked it out and found him,” Johnson said. “That’s four, Owen.”

“I can count, Detective. Have you checked with the FBI for similar killings?”

“Sure. None locally. Over the past year, more than a hundred homicides nationwide with a hammer. Only a couple dozen where the claws were used but none by a serial,” Shelby Donner answered.

“Closest ones?” Jefferson asked.

“Three. One in Milwaukee, two in Chicago. Local cops believe all were gang related. None have been solved,” Donner replied.

“We’ll cross-reference all three victims,” Johnson said.

“Last night’s bartender is inside. He says our victim is a pool hustler, usually with a big mouth. Get this, a couple weeks ago, Smith and another guy, first-name Scott, were in together. They had a little too much to drink and were bragging about what sounded like, maybe, a rape or two of quote, a couple of trans freaks,” Donner said reading from her notes.

Johnson, who knew none of this, practically had steam coming out of his ears. He said, “It would be nice if you would keep me informed of these things.”

“It would be nice if you’d show up more often than you do and on time when you do decide to come in,” Donner snapped back.

“I’ve been sick,” Johnson quickly told Jefferson.

“Stop,” Jefferson said. He turned and looked back toward where he parked and saw what he did not want to see.

“Great, the media is here. Okay, no one talks to the press and I better not see a reference to a claw hammer outside of our little circle. Understood?”

Everyone nodded or spoke their understanding. With that Jefferson walked across the parking lot to talk to them.

The next day, Marc Kadella spent a long day with a group of people he did not really like. Marc and Connie, his landlord, had clients involved with a large personal injury case. It involved several deaths and dozens of injuries, most of them quite serious injuries, from an apartment building collapse.

The defendants, mostly insurance companies, had increased their settlement offer. The majority of the lawyers representing the injured plaintiffs were pushing for a quick payday. A few of the plaintiff’s lawyers, including Marc and Connie, were pushing for more. The offer, in the minority groups’ opinion, was simply too low. Marc, being a real trial lawyer, was willing to push the case to trial. Those opposed acted as if the word trial carried a disease with it. Marc’s group prevailed.

Marc was on the living room couch waiting for the ten o’clock news to come on. Next to him, holding his hand, her head on his shoulder softly sleeping, was the love of his life, Maddy Rivers.

The Channel 8 news came on with a very serious looking male anchor somberly announcing a serious news item.

“It appears, although as of yet the Minneapolis Police will not confirm it, there is a serial killer on the loose. So far, we know of four possible victims.

“They are, a school nurse, Alice Griebler, age sixty-four, a U of M professor, Phillip Friedman, age fifty-eight, a surgeon, Walter Miller age fifty-three and James Smith, age, twenty-three. On the surface, it would appear that none of them have much in common except for the two doctors being M.D’s. Except, the unusual cause of death.

“According to trustworthy anonymous sources, they were all murdered using the same weapon; a three-inch, straight claw hammer driven into the top of the victims’ skull.

“The killings appear to be random by simple opportunity. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Of course, we will keep you informed as soon as we know more.”

The female anchor soberly added, “Be aware and please be careful out there.”

When Marc heard the name Phillip Friedman, his drowsiness disappeared. Of course, he knew Friedman had been assaulted and murdered but this news added an entirely new twist to his death.

The next morning, Scott McKay, a known associate of the recently departed Jimmy Smith, awoke with a hangover. Jimmy was a pool hustler, Scott fancied himself a poker hustler, which he almost was.

The night before he had hustled over a grand from four well off college boys. This morning, actually it was almost noon, he thought about the game for tonight.

Orange juice in hand, Scott flopped down on the couch he had retrieved from on a street with a FREE sign on it. He turned on the TV in time to catch the beginning of the local noon news. The lead story snapped Scott out of his hangover. His buddy,Jimmy Smith, his fellow street punk hustler’s picture was staring back at him.

In less than a half-hour, Scott McKay was packed up and in his five-year old Nissan entering southbound I-35. Maybe Jimmy’s murder was unrelated to their activities, but Scott decided a warmer climate might be a good idea.

THIRTY-SIX