Rogue Justice

By Judith Blevins and Carroll Multz

A KILLER WITH A CAUSE

Someone is killing all the bad guys...The only clue? A single long-stemmed black rose left at each of the crime scenes.

Now Private Investigator Beau Dexter has his work cut out for him. He’ll have to wade through the maze and the deception of the criminal justice system to solve the vigilante murders—or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BHC Press/Open Window
• Release date: Aug 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540137340

Book preview

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ROGUE JUSTICE

Copyright © 2016, 2017 Judith Blevins & Carroll Multz

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Open Window

an imprint of BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number:  

2017950888

Print edition ISBN numbers:

ISBN-13: 978-1-946848-67-3

ISBN-10: 1-946848-67-0

Visit the publisher at:

www.bhcpress.com

Also available in trade softcover

Also_by

This novel is dedicated to:

United States Supreme Court Justice

Antonin Scalia (1936 - 2016)

whose memory will always be associated with the

defense of our constitutional guarantees.

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Although we have written and published novels of our own, and even collaborated on a collection of children/young adult novels (Childhood Legends Series®), this is the first adult novel we have written together. Hopefully, it bears out the notion that two heads are better than one.

Since we share the same writing objectives (i.e., to inspire, inform and entertain—in that order), and are interested in the same genre (i.e., mystery, intrigue and courtroom drama), collusion was inevitable. In the mill is our second adult novel together.

Rogue Justice is centered in a nonexistent city in South Carolina and involves both a contrived story and imaginative characters. That having been said, it presents the criminal justice system as it is: a less than ideal way of determining the guilt of an accused and, in the process, attaining true justice.

We wish to express our appreciation to Margie Vollmer Rabdau, Dr. Donald A. Carpenter and our publisher, BHC Press, for their technical assistance.

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Prologue

Part 1 – Dans la Poursuite

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Part 2 – en Danger de Mort

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part 3 – Exposer le Criminal

Chapter Six

Part 4 – Administrant la Justice

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Part 5 – la Fin

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

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VIGILANTE STRIKES AGAIN!

The bullet-riddled body of Zanobi Benedictto was discovered late this morning by his housekeeper, Georgiana Tocinni, at the Benedictto residence on Cypress Lane. Benedictto had been arrested approximately ten months ago on racketeering charges and was released from custody upon posting a five-hundred thousand dollar bond. Yesterday afternoon, following a five-week trial, the jury returned not guilty verdicts on all charges.

Authorities are looking at Benedictto’s murder as the third in a series of homicides perpetrated over the last eighteen months by, what is believed to be, a rogue vigilante bent on dispensing his or her own brand of justice.

The first two victims, Antonio Skinelli and Riccardo Lucero, were both tried on first degree murder charges and exonerated after jury trials. The link that connects the homicides is a ‘calling card’ left by the killer at each of the crime scenes. However, the nature of that evidence is being withheld pending resolution of the crimes.

When interviewed, Tocinni reportedly told authorities that Benedictto’s family and friends held a brief victory celebration yesterday, following his acquittal. After the party, Tocinni said, Benedictto retired to his quarters shortly before midnight.

The police admit that they have few leads and are seeking the public’s assistance in solving this and the other vigilante murders.

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Carelessly, I toss today’s edition of the Carrollton Daily Watch onto my desk and rear back in my chair. Seriously doubt anyone’ll miss the daily dose of murder, corruption and fear perpetrated upon the community by the recently departed mobsters. Swiveling around, I look out my office window. Somewhere out there a serial killer is lurking and, apparently, the cops haven’t a clue to go on. I scratch the stubble on my chin, H-m-m-m, wonder what the so called calling card is?

Oh, by the way, my name is Pierre Beauregard Dexter, III, also known as Dex. Joseph Edgar Dexter, my great, great, great grandfather, idolized Brigadier General Pierre Beauregard, the first general officer of the newly formed Confederate States Army. Grandpa Joe was just a boy when the Civil war broke out and, although he was too young to fight, he loyally followed Beauregard’s career. Grandpa Joe never completely got over his fascination with the general, and when he married, he insisted his firstborn be named in honor of his idol. That was three generations ago and General Pierre Beauregard lives on in the Dexter Mansion—or at least his name does.

Dexter Mansion, a stately three-story structure that resembles Scarlett’s Tara, has been in our family for well over a century. Second to me, of course, it’s my parents’ pride and joy. Considering the antebellum estate is located near Charleston Harbor and Fort Sumter, it’s a miracle it even survived the war much less emerged virtually intact. My parents, Pierre Beauregard Dexter, II (Beau) and Lillian Marie Dexter (Lil), still refuse to concede the South lost the war and they strive to keep the confederacy alive—that is, within the confines of our ancestral home. They are not happy with my defection as they call it. Theirs is not the side I would have fought for.

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I WAS enrolled in kindergarten as Pierre Beauregard Dexter, III, at the tender age of five. I managed to skate through the first couple of grades with little or no teasing. However, my name was destined to catch up with me. I soon discovered that the eight-year-old third graders had a tendency to be cruel. They also were more aggressive than my previous younger classmates and, as it turned out, on more than one occasion, I was forced to defend a heritage I didn’t believe in. These playground battles usually resulted in black eyes and bloody noses, most of which were mine.

After engaging in an exceptionally humiliating encounter with a couple of my classmates, I stormed home one afternoon and informed my parents that I refused to be called Pierre or even Beau. I demanded to be known as Dex. This outburst, of course, resulted in another battle. Dad shook his fist in the air and raved that I was dishonoring an established family tradition. He occasionally punctuated his rantings by stabbing a forefinger in the direction of an oil painting of Grandpa Joe hanging over the fireplace. However, his attempt to lay a guilt trip on me didn’t work. I was frightened out of my wits, but I stubbornly stood my ground.

Mother, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the sofa twisting a tissue probably wondering if the two men in her life were going to come to blows. I still remember standing before them trembling but unyielding. In retrospect, I can’t imagine I looked too imposing with blood, tears and snot streaming down my face. After several terrifying minutes, Dad uttered a loud sigh and plopped down next to mother who gently put her hand on his arm. Her gesture apparently quelled his outrage and, as he slumped back onto the soft cushions, he said, Oh, for God’s sake, Son. Here, wipe your nose, and he handed me his monogrammed linen handkerchief.

Taking it, I blew my nose, Thank you, Dad, I sniffled and, putting on my most pitiful expression, handed the blood stained handkerchief back to him.

Dad didn’t flinch. He took the soiled handkerchief, and leaning forward, stuffed it in his hip pocket. As he did so, I watched something change in his expression. Then he startled me, and apparently mother because she also jerked, when he threw his hands up in surrender. The earth shook when he bellowed, HELL’S FIRE AND DAMNATION, SON! If it means that much to you…

Relieved to still be alive, I leapt onto his lap, grabbed him around the neck and hugged him tightly before he could finish his sentence. Thinking back, that may have been my first real victory. I stared death in the face and won.

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I CARRY the burden of being an only child. I refer to it as a burden because it was expected that, after my schooling, I would follow protocol and enter the family business, Dexter Enterprises, a cotton conglomerate founded by Grandpa Joe. After high school, my father encouraged me to pursue a degree in business. However, my interests lay elsewhere. Even as a child, I relished solving mysteries and my favorite toys were puzzles that challenged the mind. When I enrolled at Clemson, I gravitated toward the criminal justice courses and earned a Bachelor of Science degree with a major in criminal justice and a minor in sociology.

Unbeknownst to my parents, a few months before graduation, I applied to, and was accepted by, the Carrollton Police Department. Consequently, I dealt Mom and Dad another disappointing blow when I told them of my decision to join the police force. My rebellion, as Dad liked to call it, almost resulted in my being disinherited and I was subjected to another session of how I was debasing a time-honored family tradition. However, when Dad finished berating me, he allowed me to keep my graduation present, a screamin’ hot silver Corvette.

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I SPENT five years with the CPD on patrol. However, I longed to be a detective so I patiently waited for an opportunity to advance. Each time a detective position became available, I would apply. Each time, however, I was passed over. The writing was on the wall and I felt compelled to follow my dream so I resigned. That was over a year ago.

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WHEN I left the CPD, I hung out my shingle and rented an upscale office located on the sixth floor in one of the renovated buildings in the older section of town. Fortunately, when I turned twenty-one, I received a sizable trust fund endowed upon me by my grandfather, the first Pierre Beauregard Dexter…despite the fact that I rejected the family tradition regarding my name and denouncement of the family’s allegiance to the confederacy. Although I had to dip into my inheritance to get established in my new line of work, I don’t want to continue to depend on ‘old money.’ My desire is to make a decent living by using my education, training and ability to serve my ‘yet-to-be-identified’ clients.

Usually, well, almost always, I take the stairs up the six flights in order to get some much needed exercise. Today, before unlocking my office, I stop and admire the frosted glass window in the door. I swipe my sleeve across the gold lettering which proudly displays the name of my gig, Dexter Investigative Services.

Although it’s not compelling, since money has never been a problem, I endeavor to keep my overhead manageable. My computer skills are above-average and, coupled with my smartphone, I find I don’t need clerical help. In fact, my smartphone, which I dubbed Effie in honor of Sam Spade’s Girl Friday, doubles as a receptionist. I don’t need to be on site to answer calls anytime, anywhere.

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SINCE MY departure from the CPD, I make it a point to keep in touch with my friends in the rank-and-file. I indulge in beer and catch up several times a month with a couple of cops who have been childhood friends and classmates for twelve years, Detectives Vic McElroy and Mel Reynolds. In fact, Vic and I went through the police academy at the same time. Mel was hired by the CPD shortly after we all graduated from high school. He started out as a street cop and worked his way up to detective. He liked to lord it over us that he had seniority.

When I enter O’Shaunsay’s and approach the bar, I find Vic and Mel sitting with their heads together sharing a hearty laugh as they suck on their beer bottles. I’m sorry I missed the joke.

Hey, you guys, what’s so funny? I ask, sliding onto the barstool next to Mel.

Wiping tears from his eyes with the heels of his hands, Mel says, Man, you’d had to have been there to appreciate it. Then after a pause, he slaps me on the back and asks, How ya been, anyway, Frenchie?

Even after all these years, I’m still sensitive over being called ‘Frenchie.’ The nickname conjures up my childhood resentment at being unmercifully teased and I feel my face flush as anger threatens to spoil our reunion. I retort, Mel, looks like you need a refresher course. I whipped your ass in the third grade and bet I could do it again.

Mel throws his hands up in mock surrender. With defiance in his voice, he says, Whoa, who whipped whose…

I cut him off, Aren’t you ever gonna get it through your thick knucklehead that I’m not French. My only French connection is my name.

Apparently Mel senses I’m not kidding. He replies, Okay, okay. Simmer down, I meant no disrespect…

Yeah, sez you! I take a handful of peanuts from the bowl sitting on the bar, toss them into my mouth and say, Buy me a beer and maybe I’ll forgive you.

Sure. Our mission is to ‘serve and protect’…that includes even you, Gumshoe, Mel says as he motions for the bartender to bring another round.

I glance past Mel and greet Vic, How you guys been anyway?

Before Vic can answer, our beer arrives. Mel hands the bartender a twenty and, rearing back he places an elbow on the edge of the bar and turns toward me. Man, you’re way behind. Haven’t ya heard, Vic’s been promoted to captain?

You don’t say! I lean forward, looking past Mel at Vic, and lift my brew in salute, Congratulations! ‘Bout damn time. Maybe I should’ve forestalled my resignation for a year or so.

Thanks, Bro, Vic replies and tilts his bottle my direction acknowledging my salute. Then, looking thoughtful, he adds, Just more responsibility. I watch him frown as he says, This vigilante caper is eating us alive.

I nod, So I gather from the papers. Then looking around the lounge, I say, Let’s grab a table.

Noticing that Vic seems hesitant when Mel and I stand, I cock my head and look in his direction. He’s staring at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He twists his beer bottle a couple of times then finally joins us. I glance at Mel who shrugs and we all amble toward a vacant booth.

I dismiss Vic’s reluctance once we’re settled in a booth and ask, Any leads yet?

Vic ignores me. Mel shakes his head, None, then continues, not that anyone is mourning the losses, but who’s to say this rogue will stop with the bad guys.

And that isn’t even the point, Mel, Vic scolds and glances around apparently concerned we’re being overheard. He then whispers with agitation in his voice, We can’t validate this kind of criminal behavior. Remember, we took an oath to uphold the law—serve and protect as you so aptly pointed out a few minutes ago!

Mel looks embarrassed but remains silent.

I busy myself forming rings into what look like the Olympic logo in the condensation collecting on the table at the bottom of my bottle. I’m wrestling with whether or not to ask another question. Hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained. So, I ask, What’s the secret calling card the perp has been leaving at the scenes?

Vic jerks his head up and takes another quick look around, Sush! You know we can’t discuss that.

Somewhat embarrassed, I mutter, Yep, I know its taboo, but, mano-a-mano, maybe I can help. I’m not as restricted as you guys are and I have a few resources forbidden to you at my disposal. I don’t know what resources I’m referring to but it sounds good. I arch my eyebrows waiting for an answer.

Mel looks at Vic, apparently waiting for Vic to take the lead. After a few moments when Vic hasn’t spoken, Mel says, Hey, man, Dex has a point. Then he adds, "If