Easy Target

By David Grace

After twenty-fives years on the job, NYPD Lieutenant Greg Webster retired to a small Kansas college to teach classes in Criminal Justice. Webster looked forward to the move as a well-deserved rest for himself and his social-worker wife, Carolyn. Unfortunately, before even a year had passed Carolyn was dead, killed in an apparent hit-and-run accident. Though dazed and heartbroken, Greg suspected nothing sinister about her death until, as a class project, one of Webster’s students began researching local violent deaths and Carolyn’s accident began to look more and more like the latest in a series of murders.

But why would a successful serial killer tempt fate by targeting the wife of a retired police officer? Maybe because it was all becoming too easy for him, too many easy targets. Now the murderer wanted more of a challenge, an opponent tougher than the local campus cops. But in taking on Greg Webster the Watcher has made a serious mistake. He should have heeded the old warning: Be careful what you wish for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Grace
• Release date: Sep 17, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452356099

David Grace

David Grace is an internationally acclaimed speaker, coach, and trainer. He is the founder of Kingdom International Embassy, a church organization that empowers individuals to be agents of peace, joy, and prosperity, and Destiny Club, a personal development training program for university students. He is also the managing director of Results Driven International, a training, motivational, and coaching company that mentors private, parastatal, and government agencies throughout Botswana.

Book preview

Chapter One

Jack Thompson’s cruiser lit the corpse in alternating gleams of red and blue. Thompson had felt for a pulse but from the body’s distorted angles and vacant, staring eyes he knew that she was as dead as a rock. After snapping flares and spreading a blanket over the body, he now stood guard. He’d found twenty-three dollars and a Kansas driver’s license tucked into her jacket pocket: Carolyn Forbes Webster with an address in Varity. Forty-four years old. Her mangled bicycle lay on the shoulder a hundred feet away.

Mostly for something to do Thompson paced off the scene and made a rough sketch of the assumed impact point and the spot where the body had come to rest. Dragged, he thought, eyeing fresh gouges in the road. In the morning the traffic investigator would check for fragments of broken glass and paint chips that might identify the hit-and-run vehicle.

The wind shifted and brought with it the faint wail of an ambulance. Though Thompson had told dispatch there was no hurry, the siren was going full blast. It was probably Harley Ames who, God knew, loved nothing more than running the bus full out, red lights and siren screaming. A red haze tinted the horizon like a pale bubble. Thompson slapped his hands and paced back to his cruiser. The freshening wind smelled of crushed plants, distant smoke and the threat of rain. A bitter storm had already torn most of the leaves from the oaks and sycamores. Tomorrow was Halloween. In another week people would be watching the sky for signs of an early snow.

* * *

Greg Webster stared at the phone and willed it to ring. For the last half hour he had debated working his way through Carolyn’s address book, but what would he say? Hello, is Carolyn there? This is her husband and I expected her home three hours ago. It sounded needy and pathetic.

Greg had been in New York City for the last six weeks and now on his second day back in Kansas his wife was a couple of hours late for dinner. Call out the cavalry! But his hand crept a few inches closer to the phone and he looked again at his watch. Hell, it could be anything. Out here in the prairie cell phone service was terrible. She could be five miles away and might as well be on Mars for all the good her cell would do her. Eight-thirty, he decided, he would give her until eight-thirty and if he hadn’t heard from her he would start calling. Webster’s head jerked when the clock over the stove clicked forward another notch, then he almost tipped over his chair when the phone suddenly rang.

Jesus, Care, about damn time! he muttered and grabbed the receiver. But it was a man’s voice on the line.

Mr. Webster?

Yes?

Mr. Webster, this is Bob Mathews at the Stafford County Sheriff’s office. Could you come down to our office in Varity?

What? What’s this about?

There’s been a traffic accident, Mr. Webster and we’d appreciate it if you could come down to the office.

Is this about my wife? Has Carolyn been hurt?

I just, ah, I have a note from one of our deputies to ask you to come in, sir.

Has something happened to my wife?

Sir, I really don’t have any details, just that there was some kind of a traffic accident.

I don’t understand. Her car is here in the garage. What’s happened? Is she in the hospital?

Honestly, Mr. Webster, I don’t have any details, just a request that you come down to our office. Do you need the address?

Is she dead? Webster demanded, his voice beginning to break.

I don’t have any information, Mr. Webster. Would you like us to have a deputy pick you up?

Jesus, no! Webster shouted, dropped the phone and raced for the door.

* * *

Greg Webster was halfway down the long block when the man who called himself The Watcher pulled into Edgeware Road and flipped on his lights. Look at him go! The Watcher thought, smiling. It had taken the damn cops long enough to call Webster. The Watcher thought his feet were going to go numb waiting for the son-of-a-bitch to come racing out of his house. But the terrified expression on Webster’s face had been worth it.

Man, he’s really moving, The Watcher thought. I hope he doesn’t crash on the way to the morgue. On the seat next to him sat a ten-megapixel digital camera set to 1600 ISO, sensitive enough to catch the expression on Webster’s face when he exited the coroner’s office. The Watcher turned the heater up a notch and cursed the incompetence of the police. Not only had he left her driver’s license in her pocket, he had even called them to report the body in the road and it was still almost eight-thirty before Webster arrived at the combination Sheriff’s office and County Morgue.

Webster raced inside before The Watcher could set up for his picture. Well, no matter. All he would have gotten was the back of Webster’s head. It was the face shot he really wanted. For a moment The Watcher wondered if Webster would be any match for him. God knew these county stumblebums weren’t. At first he’d thought that a retired New York City police detective with twenty-five years on the job might be a worthy adversary, though, of course, never good enough to catch him, but maybe clever enough to at least make the game interesting. But when he’d seen that helpless, stricken expression on Greg Webster’s face The Watcher had despaired of ever finding a worthy adversary. Carefully, he lifted his camera and waited for the money shot.

Chapter Two

The cemetery was as bleak and cheerless as a rusted gun. Carolyn’s plot was at the western edge, the land beyond the wire fence covered with dead stalks of some indeterminate color extending to the windswept horizon. October had been a hard month and the backhoe had broken a tooth scratching out her grave. The service had ended some time ago, a few minutes or a few dozen, Greg couldn’t say. He remembered only a patchwork of images, the pudgy minister in a flapping black coat, a lump of cold dirt crumbling in his hand, half-heard words carried off by the wind. Terry Singleton, a Professor of Forensic Psychiatry at the School of Criminal Justice, and Webster’s only friend for five hundred miles in any direction, had tried to drag Greg home then offered to stay with him but Webster had turned away to stare blindly at the prairie, colorless in November’s flat light. At some point Terry had disappeared.

All those years on the job, Care, and I always figured you would be the one left behind, not me, Greg whispered. A gust grabbed his words and bore them across the plains so thoroughly that a moment later Webster wondered if he had spoken at all. A line of high-tension wires marched off to his left but to the northwest the vista was pristine, broken only by low hills dotted with a scatter of leafless trees.

"Sometimes after I kicked in a door and almost got myself shot I’d think that if I’d been just a little slower, in a couple of days you’d be standing in some cemetery out on Staten Island, the pipes playing Amazing Grace, with the city spread out across the harbor in front of you. Now look at us, Care. How the hell did we end up here?"

Webster closed his eyes and tried to picture her, but the image that appeared was not that of his wife of over twenty years, but that of a girl barely old enough to buy a drink, the way Carolyn had looked the first time he had seen her back in New York City all those years ago. The memories of that night came flooding back, all in a rush.

* * *

Greg led his partner, Al Cimino, down the hallway, the cracked linoleum squeaking beneath their feet.

This is not a good idea, Cimino whispered.

She looks like she did three rounds with Mohammad Ali.

Hookers get beat up. It’s an occupational hazard.

It’s felony assault.

We don’t have a warrant.

He’ll invite us in, Webster hissed and nodded for Cimino to back out of the way. Pausing just long enough to shed his coat Webster pounded twice on the door. Hey! God damn it! You’re fuckin’ leakin’ water, you asshole! Webster slammed the flat of his hand against the wood. Turn off your God damn bathtub!

From inside they heard a muttered What the fuck? and heavy steps approaching. The peephole went dark. Dressed in typical anti-crime fashion, black jeans and a worn sweatshirt baggy enough to cover his gun, Webster glared at the door and aimed a fist at the peephole.

You’re floodin’ me out, damn it!

A coffee-colored man holding a butcher’s knife yanked open the door.

Who the fuck— was as far as he got before Greg kicked him in the balls. The guy groaned and folded to the floor. Cimino raced in and knocked the knife across the room.

ADW? Cimino asked.

Menacing, at least. Webster rolled the guy, Roberto Abuelo according to his ID, onto his stomach and hooked him up. Cimino approached the kitchen while Greg headed for the bedroom. It was empty but when he passed the closet he heard muffled moans. A slide-lock secured the door from the outside.

Al, Webster called, assuming a position in front and to the right of the closet door. Cimino rushed in and, catching Webster’s gaze, slipped the bolt. A pair of eyes glittered in the shadows.

Police, Greg said, come on out.

For a long moment nothing happened then the girl crawled out, light brown skin, long kinky hair, dressed only in a dirty yellow t-shirt and white panties. She was thin, her breasts barely fist-sized knobs under her shirt. Greg figured she was about sixteen, then a bar of light crossed her frightened eyes and slid down over the Tweety-Bird logo on her shirt. Webster’s gut clenched. Thirteen, he thought. Fourteen at most.

Get her some clothes, he growled at Cimino and headed back to the front room. Abuelo heard him coming and rolled into a sitting position.

What the fuck you think— he began then he caught the look in Webster’s eyes and curled into a ball the instant before Greg’s toe would have buried itself into in his stomach.

You fucking son-of-a-bitch! Webster shouted and made ready to kick the pimp again but Cimino pulled him back.

Greg, we don’t need this kind of trouble.

That son-of-a-bitch was turning her out. . . . You piece of shit! Webster shouted.

Greg you can’t kick the shit out of every pimp in New York. They’re like cockroaches, man. Get it together.

Webster glared at Abuelo then nodded and shook off Cimino’s arm.

Yeah, okay, right. She getting dressed?

I found her some pants.

You want to watch him while I talk to her?

Webster found the girl sitting on the edge of the bed, hugging her knees.

What’s your name?

Lolli, the girl said, not looking up.

Your real name.

Janet, she mumbled after a long pause.

You got some place to go? She shook her head and looked down. Where’re you from?

The islands, she said after a long pause.

Which island?

Jamaica, she muttered in a British lilt.

Where’re your parents? She looked away and shrugged. How old are you?

Eighteen, she said, not meeting his eyes.

What’s the story? Cimino called from the bedroom door.

Says she’s eighteen and she’s got no family.

If she’s eighteen then let’s cut her loose and get Abuelo back to the house.

Yeah, and how long is she gonna last? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Screw that.

Greg, we’re cops not social workers. We’ve got this guy on the assault beef. Let’s put him in a cell.

Webster looked through the doorway and saw a grin spread across the pimp’s face. Abuelo was thinking that Janet was never going to testify against him. He’d be out by dinner.

No, Greg said, glaring at Abuelo. No fucking way.

You got a better idea?

That piece of shit is going down for statutory rape, kidnapping, false imprisonment and assault.

Angrily, Cimino pulled Webster aside.

Jesus, Greg, let’s get real here. In half an hour that kid’ll be in the wind and without her we don’t have evidence of anything.

So we keep track of her.

And how are we going to do that? You gonna move her into your place? You gonna get the city to buy her a hotel room for a year or so until the case comes to trial?

Webster looked at the faded walls and grimy windows, the girl huddled on the wrinkled bed, at Abuelo’s grinning face, then back to the girl, and in the back of his brain something clicked.

Who was that shrink who came around last month passing out cards?

Huh?

Some psychologist, therapist, something, passed out cards for some clinic or something. Webster pulled out his wallet and sorted through the little pockets. West Side Women’s Aid Clinic he read off a cheap white card. ‘Counseling and shelter for women in trouble.’ She’s a woman in trouble.

She’s a kid.

All the more reason she needs their help. Come on, we’ll drop her off on the way to the house.

Cimino shook his head. Jesus, Greg, this is nuts.

Worse comes to worst, she skips and the DA 343’s the case. At least that son-of-a-bitch will spend some time in Rikers until it gets tossed. Webster gave his partner a long stare. How about it? You want this piece of shit to skate on turning out a fourteen year old kid?

For a long moment Cimino stared at Webster, then shot a quick glance at the girl, her bowed head resting on her knees. Shit! he whispered. I never wanted to make detective anyway.

* * *

The West Side Women’s Aid Clinic was on the second floor of a four-story brownstone a block off St. Marks not far from NYU. It wasn’t really on the way back to the precinct house but by that point Cimino was tired of arguing. He sulked in the car with Abuelo while Greg led the girl into the Clinic office. A Plexiglas window fronted a worn waiting room. Webster peered into the empty room then tapped his shield on the plastic. He waited a moment then knocked harder. A face appeared from a back hallway and Greg laid his badge flat against the plastic. A moment later the door buzzed and popped free.

Halfway down the hall Greg and Janet were met by a young woman in a cheap cotton dress. Her blue eyes were about level with Webster’s shoulder which made her about five feet five with long auburn hair, and a scattering of freckles across her nose.

I’m Officer Greg Webster, he began holding up his tin. I work anti-crime out of the 10th Precinct. My partner and I just rescued this young lady, Janet gave Webster a startled glance, ‘Young lady’? Did he mean her? from a pimp who had her locked up in his closet. He’s going away for rape. She’s going to testify against him. She needs someplace to live until then. Can you help her?

It was all such an extraordinary speech — pimp, rape, testify, that for a moment the woman didn’t know where to begin. After a brief hesitation she decided to begin at the beginning and extended her hand.

Pleased to meet you, Officer Webster. I’m Carolyn Forbes.

Three days later Janet had fled and soon after that the case against Roberto Abuelo was dismissed. But Carolyn had never left him, until now.

* * *

A cold gust cut through Webster’s coat and teared his eyes. Stems and dead leaves pelted his cheek then flew off over the plains. As Greg turned away from Carolyn’s grave a cliff of blue-black clouds bore in from the north and the light faded to a dull, flat gray.

Chapter Three

The holidays passed in a blur and Webster began his second Kansas winter, an experience beyond mere weather and more closely resembling an emigration to a foreign land. The landscape became monochromatic: black trees, white fields, gray sky. Conversations began and ended with the weather — Was it going to snow? When would it stop snowing? Could you leave the car in the driveway or would you have to put it in the garage and plug in an electric blanket to keep the pistons from freezing in the bores? Would it be mild enough to only nip your cheeks or so cold that it would freeze off your nose? Days passed only as drab stretches of gray hours between eight in the morning and four-thirty in the afternoon except for those rare, achingly-crystal exceptions when the sky was as blue as the ocean and the snowfields glowed like an acre of Kenmores down at the Big Sears.

For the first few weeks after Carolyn’s death Greg was regularly greeted by neighbors and professors’ wives bearing tuna casseroles and crocks of beef stew and green apple pies. Terry Singleton, multiply divorced and perpetually hungry, became a regular dinner guest, it being a friend’s duty, Singleton contended, to help Greg mercy-eat the donations before they spoiled and thus insulting the community’s charitable spirit.

Mostly because he had no relatives or other real friends nearby, on Christmas morning Greg presented Singleton with a fifth of Johnny Walker Black Label and received in return a certificate for a year’s subscription to something called Young Naked Girls. For those cold, lonely winter nights, Singleton said with a wink and a nudge. Webster didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

At a little after eight p.m. the day after Christmas the phone dragged a sleepy Webster from the couch in front of the TV. Some kind of game show was being conducted under spotlights above a darkened set. Greg hit the mute button.

Hello?

Greg? It’s Mike McGarry. How you doin’?

Webster paused a second, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Fine, Mike. How about you?

I’m okay. Great, in fact. I’ll be pulling nights at Manhattan South for a little longer but I’m at the top of the Lieutenant’s list. It looks like I’ll get a command by summer.

Any idea where they’ll send you?

A little bird told me I might be heading back to your old stomping grounds, the 10th Precinct.

Years before Greg and McGarry had caught the guy who had viciously raped a Brooklyn Lieutenant’s brother who was in the closet. McGarry had gotten a confession to a different assault and the brother never had to testify. The doer was still in Sing Sing. The Lieutenant, now a full Inspector, never forgot his friends.

That brings back some old memories, Greg said.

I hear Lardner’s maybe going to get a star.

That son of a bitch!

It’s all your fault, you and Cimino. You made him look good in spite of himself.

So. . . ?

So, I was wondering if maybe you were bored with cows and wheat and wanted to come back to civilization. The NYPD is still looking for a few good men.

I’m too old to start over.

Not necessarily. A lot of people appreciate what you did on the Evanston re-trial. They’d bring you in as a Deputy Inspector. With all the terrorist stuff, the way I hear it they could use you in the Intelligence Division.

That little bird must be getting a sore throat with all that whispering.

McGarry ignored the jab.

You interested?

Greg looked around the empty room and at the night so dark that the windows seemed to have been painted black and he thought about being back in Manhattan and maybe feeling alive again.

I don’t know. I have a contract here through June.

You could get out of it, couldn’t you?

Winter semester starts next week. It’s too late for them to replace me.

The spot they’re thinking about for you is the executive officer of the Intelligence Unit. Two years there and you’d be a full Inspector. So, maybe on patriotic grounds the dean might give you a pass? I’m sure they can find some other burned-out homicide dick to mold young minds.

Webster rubbed his forehead. The silence was smothering. McGarry’s distant voice was the only evidence that Webster was not the last person on earth. Would they let him go? They were nice people. But he’d already taken advantage of their decency by taking a leave of absence for the fall semester to help the Department with the Evanston re-trial.

I can’t do it, Mike, Webster said after a long pause.

The Commissioner could give your dean a call.

It’s not that, Mike. I signed a contract. A deal’s a deal.

McGarry heard the edge in Webster’s voice, a tone he had heard a hundred times before when Greg’s altar-boy conscience started to kick in.

Jesus, Greg, all we have to do is . . . . McGarry would say and Webster’s face would get that stony expression, his eyes harden, his lips pressed tight in an obstinate line. Then he would spout one of his platitudes: ‘A deal’s a deal.’ ‘A promise is a promise.’ ‘We have to do the right thing.’

God damn fucking Jesuits ruined you, you know that, Greg? McGarry would mutter but it never did any good. Once Webster detected the moral line between right and wrong, a boundary that to McGarry was often as indistinct and confusing as the trails in the Ramble in Central Park, Greg was the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch McGarry had never met.

And there it was. ‘A deal’s a deal.’ McGarry knew when to move on.

Well, what about when school’s over?

June? I don’t know. Maybe, tell them maybe. I feel like I’m living underwater or something. I need some time to figure things out.

Sure, Greg. I’ll tell my little bird ‘Maybe June.’ . . . Look, McGarry continued after a short pause, if there’s anything I can do for you, you know, just give me a call.

Yeah, thanks, Mike. Let me have your number there.

Webster scrawled a line in his address book and a moment later hung up. Thoughts of being back on the Job tumbled through his head.

Years ago Carolyn had dragged him to one of the Lord Of The Rings movies. It wasn’t his thing but one part of the film resonated with him. Civilians don’t understand what it means to carry a badge. For some it’s the Sheriff’s seven pointed star or the NY State Police eight-sided ‘stop sign’ badge or the almost art-deco NYPD detective’s shield. It doesn’t matter. There is a psychic weight to the piece of copper and steel. The object itself is only a tiny physical manifestation of something larger and more mysterious.

The Badge was power. It was the force of The Law. Each time now that he slipped into his coat Greg felt its absence. He understood the lure of the ring in the movies. In some invisible way his missing badge called to him like a tongue drawn to the gap of a missing tooth.

Making myself crazy, Webster muttered and wandered into the kitchen. For a moment he considered grabbing a beer then peered into the pantry. In the back was a tall dark bottle. Some kind of California wine Carolyn had bought on sale at the Food Lion. For a special occasion, she told him. The clock over the stove clicked.

What the hell? Greg grabbed it by the neck and hauled it out, wondering where the corkscrew was. The bottle was dusty green, the wine black. It wasn’t until he twisted it to read the label that he saw the card. This one was mint green with blue-black ink. Carolyn’s printing was unmistakable, the y’s curled at the bottom, the d’s hooked at the top.

Throughout their marriage, the days, sometimes the weeks, when they had barely seen each other, Carolyn wrote him little notes ‘to bridge the gaps and fill in the cracks’ she told him. At first he thought it was cute, then stupid, then sappy, then he missed them when they weren’t there. That time during the Siragusa case when he was under cover and they barely saw each other and when they did get together they only seemed to fight, he would sneak home for a change of clothes or quick shower and prowl the apartment looking for one of Carolyn’s notes — in the sock drawer, under the knives and forks, in the inside pocket of his Wedding and Funeral Suit. Every time he found nothing it was like a little needle in his heart.

Not counting a few weekends back in Kansas and a couple of quick mid-week visits, Webster had been in New York City on the Evanston re-trial for exactly 34 days. In the time since his return a few days before Halloween he had found twenty-four notes. This was number twenty-five. There were nine left.

Absentmindedly putting the bottle on the stove, he eagerly read the card:

Now is just the beginning. There’s a whole new world just waiting to be discovered — Care.

A new world. Kansas in the dead of winter. Greg couldn’t help thinking about how he and Carolyn had ended up in this icy wilderness.

* * *

Care, I’m home, Greg called, kicking the door closed behind him. Spring had reached Manhattan. The flower stalls were full of tulips and daffodils and Greg had scooped up a handful of each on the way. Carolyn found him in the kitchen pouring water into a vase.

You’re in a good mood, she said, forcing a smile.

What’s wrong? One of things he loved about Carolyn was that she never played the Guessing Game. Greg figured most American wives would have started out with ‘Who says anything’s wrong?’ which would have segued into ‘I’ve seen that look before’; ‘What look?’ and then after ten minutes of denials, recriminations and tears she would finally explain what the problem was. Not Carolyn. She motioned him to the kitchen table and held up an envelope. The return address was One Police Plaza.

You made the Captain’s list.

You say that like it’s a bad thing.

The Clinic is opening a new center on the East Side. They’ve asked me to be the Executive Director.

It sounds like the Webster household is headed for a big celebration.

I want you to retire, she said in a flat, dead tone.

Retire? Now? Before I make Captain?

I’m going to quit too.

What? Care, you’ve spent your whole life helping those kids. Now, just when they’ve recognized your contribution, when you’ll finally get the chance to run the place the way it should be run, you want to quit?

How long before you get your captain’s posting?

Greg shrugged.

I don’t know. It could be anywhere from a couple of months to a year.

They won’t let you sit on the shelf very long. I figure three months, tops.

Okay. . . ?

It’s going to take you three months to get settled into your new precinct and figure out who the good cops are and who are the bums. Then it’ll take you another three months to start to get things set up the way you want. Then there are bound to be two or three big cases that you’re going to have to deal with.

Yeah, okay, that’s the job.

And that’s the problem. We’ll barely see each other for the next year. You’ll be in and out at all hours. They’ll have you going to meetings and seminars. Then, maybe after a year or eighteen months, just when things are starting to settle down, they’ll figure out that you’ve got the right stuff and they’ll start talking to you about signing you up for Deputy Inspector.

Care, I—

"And I won’t be any better. On those rare nights when you actually get home at some reasonable hour, the odds are that I won’t be here. I’ll be down at the Center dealing with some kid crisis or employee crisis or funding crisis or some other kind of crisis."

Care, we can work it out. We always have. We just need to . . . . Carolyn frowned and shook her head and Greg shut up.

Greg, I can see this as clearly as I can your face. If we don’t quit now, if we don’t get out of this city now, our marriage will die. I can see it like a living, breathing person with each of us pointing a gun at its chest. Taking these promotions will be like pulling the triggers. If we stay here our marriage will die.

Care . . . . Greg struggled to speak but nothing came out.

I will not sit around and watch our marriage get sicker and sicker in front of my eyes. I can’t do that Greg.

What do you want to do? he asked in a soft voice.

You’ve got your twenty-five.

Then what?

You’d be a good teacher.

A teacher? Teaching what?

How to catch crooks. That’s something you’ve always been good at.

You mean at John Jay?

Carolyn went to the cabinet, pulled out a gaily-colored brochure and handed it to him.

Kansas Central University in . . . Varity, Kansas? Kansas?

The temptation in this town is too great, for both of us. One way or the other we’d get sucked back in. Besides, we can live in Kansas for about half what it costs us here.

It’s out in the middle of nowhere. What would you do?

For the first year, not much. I’ve worked hard, Greg, my whole life. I want some time to rest. I want to bake a pie, watch a movie, read a book. I want to clean my own house instead of hiring a service.

You’d be bored to tears.

If I get bored, Carolyn said in her most logical voice, then I’ll get an MSW license and do some youth counseling, just enough to keep me busy. There are always kids who need help.

Jeez— Greg ran his hand through his hair. We don’t even know if they have a place for me.

Carolyn handed him a folded, heavy white letter.

Dear Lieutenant Webster, it began, Kansas Central University is pleased to offer you a position in our School of Criminal Justice for the Fall academic year. Your duties would include . . . .

You signed my name to a job application?

I know how my husband’s mind works.

That’s when Greg knew he was dead. Carolyn only described him as my husband when she was prepared to exercise proprietary control. It was her signal that he was her husband and that he had responsibilities not only to her but to their partnership. There had been times when he had used the phrase ‘my wife.’ By unspoken treaty, those words were a trump card that neither could ignore.

It’s cold in Kansas, Greg said weakly.

It’s cold in New York.

It’s empty and isolated in Kansas.

It’s uncrowded and land is cheap. We could have a big house and a real yard.

The bagels are lousy there.

Mike can Fed Ex you a Care Package on your birthday.

You’ve made up your mind on this?

It’s our marriage, Greg. I’m not letting it go, not for anything.

She gave him a level stare.

Is it okay if I officially retire at the end of June? That’ll give us some time to find a place and move the furniture and get settled in. I guess we’ll need to buy an SUV or something that works in the snow. . . . Kansas Central University? KCU?

Training For Tomorrow.

Training For Tomorrow, Greg repeated uneasily. What’s their mascot?

The Fighting Prairie Dogs.

Shit.

* * *

Now is just the beginning. There’s a whole new world just waiting to be discovered.

Webster grabbed the binder from his spare-room-office and tucked the note inside the plastic sheets on a fresh page, then he read it all over again. Slowly, he leafed through the pages, one by one, and found himself smiling, until he came to number four, the one he had found under some papers on his desk the day after Carolyn’s funeral, Is this all there is? I feel so empty and alone — Care. His heart seemed to stop. For a moment longer he stared at it then closed the book. He had no idea she’d been that unhappy.

There were nine notes left to be discovered. He wanted to see them and dreaded finding them. While any of them remained undiscovered it was as if Carolyn was still alive and he could let himself imagine that on some dark night, a night just like this one, there would be a soft knock on the door and she would be there, come back to him again. The instant he found the last card Carolyn would be well and truly gone. Wearily, he put the binder back on the shelf and went to bed.

Chapter Four

What in another era would have been the sounds of pencils scraping on paper was today the hollow rattle of plastic keys. Webster glanced at his class. He had printed Felony Case Management - Gregory Webster in Magic Marker on the white board. According to the roster eighteen students were registered for the course. He vaguely recognized a few of them from last year. Most were new. Eleven hundred students were enrolled in the Kansas Central University School of Criminal Justice. Eighteen eager faces, mostly white, mid-western, corn-fed Christians determined to do God’s work, protect the weak, and get a job with full dental and an above average retirement program stared up at him. Here and there he spied a few people of color, Two African-American males, one very black and the other chocolate brown, two Asian women and a man of indeterminate parentage, Filipino-Korean? Japanese-Indian? Webster neither knew nor cared.

Ladies and gentlemen, he began, I’m Gregory Webster and I’m here to teach you the fine art of felony case management. I began my career with five years as a uniformed officer in the NYPD. Then I moved to Anti-Crime which means that I was under the command of a Sergeant, wore plain clothes, and worked various types of street crime such as muggings, robbery, assaults, car thefts and prostitution. After two years in Anti-Crime I made Detective third grade. After twenty-five years on the force I retired as a Lieutenant in the Major Case Squad. In my career I worked over four hundred homicides. I am not a professor. I am not an academic. I am a cop. It is my intention to teach you how to be successful, efficient and, most of all, effective police officers. As in all police work, we will start with a crime.

Webster turned to the whiteboard and wrote: The Crime: Murder.

When he turned back he found his eyes drawn to a girl in the second row, a pleasant, even face, blue eyes under a casual fall of light brown hair. She stared back and fixed him with a worried gaze as if she feared he had discovered her secret and was about to reveal it to the world.

Before we go any further, I guess we should get a seating chart so I can start to learn your names. A few moments later he glanced at the rows of boxes and noticed a neatly printed name at her position: Jennifer Simms. Webster gave her another quick glance and then turned back to the class.

My first month in Major Case my partner, Mike McGarry, and I were sent to an apartment near Greenwich Village . . . .

* * *

Webster took the lead up the steps. The apartment was on the third floor in a building on Greenwich, just off West Houston. They paused outside the half-open door and McGarry noted scarring on the door. Just inside the lock-plate lay on the floor.

Crowbar, McGarry said, pointing at the crush marks.

Both men slipped on rubber gloves and paper booties then signed in with the uniformed officer guarding the entrance. A hallway led straight back to the kitchen with a small living room to the left and a bedroom and a bath to the right. A two hundred dollar electronic scale supporting a plastic bin half-full of white powder sat on the kitchen table.

Speed, coke or dope? McGarry asked the Crime Scene tech photographing a set of bloody footprints on the tile floor.

Speed, the tech answered without looking up. The flash popped and then whined as it re-charged.

A young blonde woman with a long narrow face, thin arms and large breasts under a dirty olive-green t-shirt occupied the chair on the right side of the table. Her head was thrown back, blood and brains dripping from a hole in the back of her skull. Across from her was a male Caucasian in his early twenties wearing a sleeveless white undershirt. He had close-cut brown hair and a tattoo of barbed wire encircling each arm. From one strand hung a green-ink medallion showing an eagle clutching the Crooked Cross.

Prison tats, McGarry said unnecessarily. Webster ignored him. Making verbal comments was instinctive to McGarry. He couldn’t help himself. Webster had soon learned to ignore his partner’s constant remarks.

The male’s head lay flat on the metal table, his hands sprawled at his sides. A bloody channel about four inches long lay across the center of his skull.

Crowbar-sized, McGarry muttered then glanced at the floor. A handful of small Ziploc bags were scattered around the body.

Be sure to get me close-ups of those bags, Webster told the tech. Squatting, he lifted one of them. It was half stuck to the floor and he left it where it was. Let’s look around, he said, standing.

The apartment was relatively clean for a dope dealer. They found no crowbar, no guns and no other contraband. There was one towel in the bathroom and no obvious blood in the sink. When they returned to the living room the tech was taking a 360 set of pictures.

Check the sinks and the shower for blood, McGarry told him. And check all the trash.

Yeah, I would’ve never thought of that on my own, the tech mumbled and popped the strobe in McGarry’s face. I’ll send you a print for your Christmas card, he called over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later the coroner’s deputy carted off the second body and the CS tech went back to the kitchen.

We’ve got ourselves a real whodunit, McGarry said as they followed the body out the front door.

* * *

"All right, that’s the scene as initially presented to the investigating officers. I want each of you to outline your investigative plan for this crime. I want a concise list. Bullet points. What needs to be done? Who needs to do it? What leads need to be checked and in what order? Who needs to be interviewed? What questions need to be asked? What technical issues do you want Crime Scene to investigate? What technical reports do you need and be sure to list them in order of decreasing importance. I’ve given you several important clues. What are they? Ask yourself, ‘What doesn’t fit?’ ‘What’s out of place?’ and then ask yourself, ‘What areas of investigation do those anomalies lead me to?’ I want your papers in my box by five on Wednesday. I’ll review them, grade them, then we will discuss them on Friday.

Now, let’s go over the major components of every felony investigation. Webster scanned the class and picked his first victim. You, Mr. Thurman, he called, checking the seating chart, where do we begin?

* * *

Jennifer Simms studied Webster in quick jerks and peeks between jotting precise notes on a yellow pad. She had no laptop. Every dollar she possessed was scheduled and allocated to a vital purpose - food, rent, books, soap. She typed her papers on her roommate’s computer when she could and on one of the library terminals when she couldn’t.

Like most of the students, Jennifer had heard about Webster, about how his wife had been killed by a hit-and-run driver and that there were no suspects. Maybe that was why he seemed so stiff, as if his arms and legs were bound by an invisible rubber sheath. Other than that he looked more or less normal, about six feet tall, medium brown hair, hazel eyes, not bad looking for a man who had to be nearing fifty. Like most girls her age, Jennifer thought that fifty was one short step from the oatmeal-droolers in a retirement home. Last term an assistant professor in Psyche 200 had invited her out for coffee ‘to discuss her paper’ and it was all she could do to keep from groaning ‘eeeeeeeeeeeh’. The guy had to be at least thirty-five!

But there was something appealing about Mr. Webster, in a non-sexual sort of way. If pressed she might have used the word ‘honorable’ and she suspected that he was also brave, dependable and trustworthy. Like a boy scout or the family dog, she chided herself. But then she thought, No, like a cop is supposed to be. Like a father is supposed to be and then she dipped her head and stared blindly at her pad.

* * *

So! Webster said,

Reviews for Easy Target

[arlenadean · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Author: David GracePublished By: D. G.Age Recommended: AdultReviewed By: Arlena DeanBook Blog For: GMTARating: 5Review:"Easy Target" by David Grace was a good detective/mystery read that I thoroughly enjoyed. Greg and his wife had moved to Varity, Kansas where he had changed his livelihood from working for the NYPD to teaching 'felony murder' classes at KCU. Life quickly had changed when his wife Carolyn had died suddenly from a hit and run accident. But was this really a accident? In "Easy Target" you will find very interesting plots...with several stories in this novel and with well developed characters...all making this read a intriguing read. This author really does his magic with this read presenting quite a story especially with the help of Greg Websters one student ....as a class assignment.."began researching local violent deaths and Carolyn's accident began to look more and more like the latest in a series of murders" and now this novel takes off where I say ... Were these all accidents or are we dealing with a serial killer? Now, this is the part that I will say you must pick up this read.."Easy Target" to see what, how and what Mr. Grace will touch us with a great written story that you will find hard to put down until the last word only leaving ...."He should have heeded the old warning: Be careful what you wish for." I found "Easy Target" easy excellent read that I would recommend to the reader especially if you like a good mystery read.