Justicariat

By Nathan Bolduc

When the world needs to punish its most heinous of criminals it relies on the Justicariat, an international agency of elite men and women known as Justicars. Recognized by their signature gray leather coats, these agents of law are given absolute authority over all other powers on earth to ensure that no barriers stand between them and the world's most dangerous criminals.

Follow the accounts of Brian Galan, Noriko Tachibana, and many other Justicars as they collaborate their efforts to stop a shadowy syndicate of crime. From the dazzling cityscape of Las Vegas and the teeming bustle of Rio de Janeiro, to a lost island in the Pacific Ocean, the Justicars will stop at nothing to prevent a worldwide catastrophe, no matter the cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathan Bolduc
• Release date: Jul 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311759900

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Justicariat

Nathan Bolduc

Justicariat

Copyright © Nathan Bolduc

Smashwords Edition.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: By the Book

Chapter 2: Contact

Chapter 3: Fruits of Labor

Chapter 4: A Day Off

Chapter 5: Strength

Chapter 6: A Good First Day

Chapter 7: Paying Respects

Chapter 8: Paying Dues

Chapter 9: Preparation

Chapter 10: Commencement

Chapter 11: Ascent

Chapter 12: Going Loud

Chapter 13: The Best-Laid Plans

Chapter 14: Behind the Scenes

Chapter 15: Close Quarters

Chapter 16: Infiltration

Chapter 17: Old Business

Chapter 18: Predators

Chapter 19: Exposure

Chapter 20: Aggressive Defense

Chapter 21: Cornered Beasts

Chapter 22: The Price of Victory

Chapter 23: No Greater Honor, No Greater Sacrifice

Chapter 24: Resurgence

Chapter 25: Professional Courtesy

Chapter 26: Weakness

Epilogue

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Prologue

It’s hot out. Not a dry heat, either. The air is sticky, thick—a humid miasma. The sun beats mercilessly against the sidewalks, the graffiti-covered walls of nearby buildings, and fences. Another blistering day in Detroit: midsummer, cloudless, windless, and stagnant.

In other words, an absolute whore of a day to be sprinting while wearing boots, a long coat, and long sleeves. Why am I dressed so heavily? Well, I hadn’t planned on running; hadn’t planned on a pursuit.

And yet, here I am, chasing a man across an open, asphalt parking lot, in the middle of an industrial park. The smell of factories churning out their mass products filled the air, watering my eyes, but not hindering my vision. I hate running. Always have. I hate the shortness of breath, the sweaty, itchy feeling, the soreness in your legs. I’m not a bad runner and am in fact quite fast, but if I can avoid it, I won’t run.

Now, however, I have no choice. The man I’m chasing is also fast, and he’s proven to be an expert at disappearing. This is the first time I’ve chased him in such a manner, and I know just how slippery he can be. He won’t get away this time. No; not again. Not with that bullet in his shin, put there by one of the local cops. Good man, that officer; he’ll be remembered well, along with the six others the man I’m chasing killed today during the raid on his hideout.

His name is Ralph Weski, and he’s been a problem for Detroit PD for a year. A self-proclaimed crusader against corruption, he’s been killing—no, not just killing, hunting is a better term for it—hunting police in those two years. Ambushes, traps, open fighting, all in the name of stamping out the supposed weed of sin that was the Detroit Police Department. He’s killed twenty-two cops, including the seven today, all monsters in his eyes.

Whether the cops he killed were all dirty or not, I don’t care. Twenty-two murders without a survivor. Everything he did was with the intention of killing someone, and he did it well, like a man who made it his profession.

Small world. My profession requires a similar lethal precision: such cunning, such grim expertise. The master-crafted weapon in my left-shoulder sling pats heavily against my breast, egging me on to use it and end Ralph Weski’s hunt. It’s heavy, with a large barrel. It fires one round at a time: a fat, stubby, custom-tailored .60 caliber bullet. The weapon itself is made of forged titanium and weighs exactly six pounds with the bullet in the chamber, and five-point-six-seven pounds without. It was made with no other intention except to end lives, and I am about to use it on Ralph, and I’m closing the gap quickly.

He’s bled a good deal and fatigue is apparent. He is a man in his early forties, with thinning hair, pale skin, and salt-and-pepper stubble around his chin. Thin, but not too athletic. He probably hates running, too, though he is better dressed for it, wearing gray sweat tops and bottoms. Red blood is drying around the shin injury and onto his crusty, old tennis shoes. We’ve been in this chase for about twenty minutes: far too long.

He finally stumbles on a patch of gravel, sprawling out on the blacktop. He yelps in pain and fear as I close the distance on him. He fumbles, reaching for the folding knife he has clipped to the back of his pants. I know it’s there; it’s been bouncing up and down the entire chase. I’m surprised that it didn’t fall off.

And he is surprised when I disarm him of it. I stomp on his wrist, feel it crunch under my steel-soled boot. He cries out and I kick the weapon away, sending it skittering across the ground.

He whimpers, nursing the new injury, mumbling obscenities. I don’t say anything to silence him; I’m out of breath, red in the face, and very, very irritated. I only have to say what was necessary to perform the duty of my office.

I catch my breath and draw my heavy executioner’s tool. It gleams in the light, its polished surface almost illuminating the already bright day. On the side of its barrel is the beautifully-carved etching that reads, Fragrach. It’s the name I gave the weapon, a tradition of those who work in my field. The name itself is Celtic, meaning, The Answerer. I named it that when I became a Justicar almost seven years ago, with a sense of grim irony; it certainly is the answer to a lot of problems I see in my work.

I raise it to Ralph’s forehead, and he stares down the bore with nothing but pure, uncensored terror. His lips quiver and he freezes. Good, because I don’t want to move any more than I need to.

Ralph Weski, I say, winded, Justice has weighed itself against you, and you have been found wanting.

He breaks down and begins to weep, blubbering out desperate pleas.

Ignoring them, I continue, To right your heinous wrongs, you are condemned to die by the hands of Justice.

He screams for mercy, begging me to stop from performing my duty.

I cock back the heavy hammer of Fragrach, a solid, metallic crack. Your fate has been sealed. Make peace with whatever Gods you serve, for this day you will be delivered to them firsthand by the Justicariat.

He curses, wanting to lash out at me but frozen in terror at his fate. Damn you, piece of sh—

Fragrach’s hammer snaps forward, and its barrel roars fire, snapping my arm back with the recoil. The thick bullet completely destroys Ralph Weski’s head, spraying bits of gore, bone, and blood against the ground. His body is thrown back, and his headless neck drains blood onto the blacktop, staining it.

The barrel of Fragrach smokes, steaming wispy ribbons into the air. To remove the spent casing, the weapon opens like a shotgun, clicking as it does. I remove the shell with care; I don’t want to burn my fingertips. There’s a special place in my holster for spent rounds, a sealed portion made specifically for that purpose, and I deposit it in the leather pouch. I then snap Fragrach shut and holster it. Five-point-six-seven pounds without a round in the chamber.

Yet, I feel like I’ve dropped a ton off of my shoulders.

My name is Brian Galan, Justicar, North American Chapter. I’ve carried the title of Justicar for about seven years now and have made a modest career of it in my time. I’m twenty-eight years old, in my prime. My height is six feet and one inch, topped by a cleanly-shaven scalp. I keep a neat, short, brown beard on my chin and around my mouth. My eyes are as brown as my facial hair. My face is taut, and my body is of a moderate build, almost a genuine Celtic if not for my mother’s Norwegian heritage.

Aside from my physical appearance, my peers tell me I’m far too serious. That’s fine with me. This job isn’t like most jobs. Fun takes a backseat when I’m on duty. Come to think of it, it takes a backseat when I’m off-duty, too. I almost never smile, which in turn comes off as if I’m not happy at all.

Which isn’t true. I actually am content with myself and my work, but I feel that openly expressing it like most people do, saying they enjoy their job, might come off as…well, insane. A Justicar’s duty of office is to end the lives of people who commit crimes against humanity, not just against the written law. Killer-killers, in the shortest term thinkable. Early on in training, I and other hopeful candidates for the title of Justicar are indoctrinated with the reasoning behind it: the letter of the law changes, but the spirit will not. Law is based on morality, morality based on culture, culture on history. History has shown since the beginning of civilization to present day the letter of law has been in constant flux, but the spirit has been rigid. Law has always opposed the Great Crime, Theft. Like law, Crime has many letters, forms, and incarnations. However, the spirit of crime has, and has always been, Theft.

All crime is a form of stealing something. In its purest form, it’s stealing an object—a possession. Murder is stealing a life; rape is stealing the victim’s body, security, and decency; human-trafficking is stealing people. The letter of crime changes all the time, and the Law changes suit to meet it.

The world, however, doesn’t have a universal standard of Law and Crime anymore. World War II gave the world some of the most atrocious crimes in modern history, and when the United Nations formed, they decided to create another entity along with it, one to be the bottom-line and authority on upholding Law and punishing Crime.

That entity was the Justicariat. It was an organization that did not answer to any one country, but the world—one that held absolute power, held in check by the Congress of the Justicariat. The Congress itself was composed of the most senior Justicars from countries around the world, with no two from the same country. Policies, procedure, salary, and major decisions in crisis situations: they run our show.

They make the rules for us Justicars, which is good because they understand the nature of our business. Since decisions must be unanimous to be implemented, the foundations of our organization have remained largely unchanged over the decades.

The date is July 14th, 2011, and I executed Ralph Weski yesterday. Right now I am in a cheap hotel in Detroit, carefully packing my belongings into a single suitcase. I’m packing my uniform away into my suitcase, relieved that I don’t have to wear it in this damned heat anymore. My boots, high-cut with steel inlaid into the sole and toe, go in first. I place them sideways—flat—to make more room, forming them akin to a yin-yang. Next go my trousers, black, thick cotton. My belt is in the loops of the trousers, the buckle shaped into a crossed hammer and sword, the recognized insignia of the Justicariat. After my trousers goes my short-sleeved undershirt, again black, made of the same material as the trousers aside from the flexible Kevlar inlaid in the torso of the shirt. It, like the belt, carries the crossed hammer and sword on it, embroidered into the breast in white thread. Since it has Kevlar woven into it, I don’t bother folding it neatly; I can clean my undershirts later.

Ah, but my last piece of clothing I cannot treat casually. The gray, leather trench coat, hammer-and-sword branded into the breast. The most important piece in the Justicar’s uniform, standard since the inception of the organization. It’s more than just a coat; it is a legacy, a reputation, a legend. The world’s most feared criminals fear the gray trench coats of the Justicar as much as the black robes of Death.

Because, in all truth, they are the same thing.

After I fold my coat and stow it, I place Fragrach in its holster and stow it next to the clothing. The spent casing from Weski’s execution is in the special compartment still, waiting for when I return home. The casing will take its place among the forty-six other casings I keep in a neat display. Trophies, of a sort, each one representing a life ended for the good of humanity. The names of each are scratched on the sides of…

I realize I have forgotten to carve Ralph Weski’s name into the casing. I sigh, reach into the suitcase, and pull out my issued Ka-Bar knife, once again emblazoned with the Justicariat hammer-and-sword. We Justicars take pride in our organization, and it is customary to have the emblem on most everything we own. The Ka-Bar is sharp, as expected. I take care of it constantly, and it has saved my life on more than one occasion. Take care of your weapons and they’ll take care of you, simple as that. I had already cleaned Fragrach thoroughly before stowing it. After I finish scrawling the name into the casing, I resharpen the Ka-Bar before packing both away. I holster another pistol at my side, a customized M1911 .45 ACP. Justicars are allowed to carry their weapons openly and can have as many as they feel are needed. It’s not uncommon to see other Justicars with assault weaponry slung across their backs or archaic melee weapons on their person. To each their own; my pistol and my knife have yet to be less than required to get my work done.

I’m wearing a white, sleeveless shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals, doing the best I can to mitigate the heat. Nothing in my casual attire suggests that I work for one of the most feared and admired organizations on planet Earth, except the tattoo on my left shoulder, again the Justicariat logo, and my trusted pistol at my waist. I got the tattoo the same day I got Fragrach, when I was appointed to my position.

I throw on a baseball hat (Red Sox; all hail Boston) and sunglasses before I leave for the airport. I hail a cab and arrive, giving the driver a handsome tip, which he gratefully takes. My flight to Washington, D.C. isn’t for a few hours, but the airport is air-conditioned, unlike my hotel. I hate heat and humidity just about as much as I hate running, plus it will give me time to write my report on the Weski case. I take out my small laptop, turn it on, and open a word document. I sigh, crack my knuckles, and begin to recall this case, starting from when I arrived at this very airport.

Chapter 1: By the Book

Brian Galan

It was July 3rd, 2011, around noon, when I touched down in Detroit, Michigan. Like weather reports had indicated, it was hot—muggy. I was prepared and dressed for heat, wearing shorts, sandals, and a sleeveless shirt.

Once I had claimed my bag, I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to a cheap hotel. He seemed to know many, so I told him to take me to one he recommended. The hotel I arrived at had no real name, just Motel. I paid for a room for the week: a modest sum of $300. The room itself was…stale, if I could put a word to it. Musty, bare, and I could hear through the walls. I had a reputation amongst my peers as being a penny-pincher, and I was certainly not helping that reputation by staying there.

A complimentary edition of the Detroit Free Press was lying on the table within the room, something I always appreciate when going on assignment. Local newspapers tend to be a good read, and I make a point of scrutinizing everything in them. The focus of the articles was centered around the spree of police officers being murdered on the job. Speculation ran rampant through them, and I ignored the theories published by the press. No need to pollute a clean set of eyes on the whole thing with every potential scenario under the sun. The obituaries were very brief, which I found curious. Large cities tend to have long obituary listings, but in the edition there were a scant four people. James Dorian, 57, lawyer: died in a hospital after a struggle with cancer. His picture was clearly of his younger days, depicting him on a sailboat in the ocean. The next was Kirk Svenson, 60, city bus driver: died in a car accident. His picture was up-to-date as far as I could tell. His obituary was very brief; it seemed as if he didn’t have much family to account for him. The last two were Enrique and Carlos DeMatrios, twin brothers, 2 years old. Cause of death was unspecified. I was curious about it until I saw a small article about the twins later in the paper, telling of how their mother neglected to watch them bathe while she slept off a hangover. Had this woman not already pleaded guilty, I think I would have made a trip to her whereabouts to judge her myself.

I unpacked my belongings and dressed in my Justicar uniform. I was to meet with the Detroit chief of police, George Destephano, later that day, and I wanted to show him that I meant nothing but business. I holstered my two weapons, my M1911 pistol at my hip and my Executioner, Fragrach, on the left side of my chest.

I left the hotel and immediately made my way to Police Headquarters. It was about eight city blocks away, so I decided to walk the distance.

Now, I must admit there was an ulterior motive to doing this. I love to see the reactions people give when they see a Justicar walk by them. Some respectfully salute, give thanks, or show appreciation. Others stare; some cower in fear. Almost no one dares to openly display their disgust. One person did that day: a young man about my age. He spouted an obscenity about the Justicariat and my mother.

In my experience, the best way to silence such rabble-rousers is simply to turn to them and stare. So that’s exactly what I did, and all of the sudden he wasn’t so discontent. I opened my coat and showed him Fragrach, and he left in a hurry.

God, how I love that.

I entered the headquarters and went to the front desk, asking the woman there where the chief’s office was. She was rather polite and courteous, but not in a forced, intimidated way. That’s always nice, too: being treated like a normal person when intimidation was unnecessary. She directed me up to the third floor and down to the end of the hall, and I thanked her with equal politeness.

The elevator ride up was awkward. There were two other officers in there with me, and though their attention was clearly on me and my uniform, they never said a word.

The elevator let me off at the third floor, and already I could see the end of the hall where Chief George Destephano no doubt waited in his office. The floor itself was clearly for the homicide department; there were desks with piled papers, files, and notes. The walls all had doors that held interrogation rooms: bland, gray, and unnerving. It reminded me of my coat.

My boots thudded heavily as I casually strolled down the hall. I took the time to observe the faces that looked at me. These weren’t just citizens, they were police: fellow upholders of law. They were authority, same as me. I have the utmost respect for the local cops wherever I go, and it is with that respect that I say despite their power, they are severely handicapped by jurisdiction. I know that they feel frustration many times when that handicap manifests itself and some arbitrary rule prevents them from finding justice.

I, on the other hand, never need a warrant to search or arrest, nor do I need to recognize a person’s rights. My authority is absolute; people in my custody have lost all human rights and are at the mercy of their own wits, since they cannot call for a lawyer when I interrogate them nor would one do any good.

My power is the envy of cops everywhere, and here was no exception. These officers had lost over ten fellow brothers and sisters, with nothing to show for it. They wanted justice. They wanted answers. They wanted blood. I intended to grant them all three.

Before I made it to Chief Destephano’s office, I heard commotion to my left coming from a tall, lean man and a shorter, dark-haired woman. Both were clearly police, and their attire suggested detectives; they weren’t wearing your regular beat cop uniforms. They were shouting at each other, the man’s voice slightly dominating the cutting voice of the woman. Cursing, finger-pointing…they were practically on the verge of murdering each other. They were talking over one another, so I couldn’t understand what it was about at first, but I concluded that it was about releasing a prime suspect due to circumstantial evidence. Handicapped by the laws they protect.

I stopped my walk and considered their problem. They sounded convinced that the man in the next room was guilty as sin. Since this was the homicide department, the man in the interrogation room was a murderer. What kind of a Justicar would I be if I did not step down from my seat of power to help the local peacekeepers?

I turned to the arguing pair and walked up to them. They were completely oblivious to my presence, so I let them continue, pulling up a wheeled chair and taking a seat casually. After another minute or so of their bout, their arguments and voices seemed to give out from exhaustion. Need some water? I asked after the woman cleared her throat painfully.

No, thanks, I’m fine, she said, paying little attention to me.

Well, I continued, standing up, that seemed to be a fantastic debate, but did it really solve anything?

The man, who had been standing with his hand bracing the wall adjacent to him, turned to ask me a question of his own. Hey, buddy, how about you keep your comments… He froze when he saw my jacket, and the woman followed suit.

Oh, I’ll do what I will with my comments, I said, answering his incomplete question, and it would behoove you to take them with a grain of salt. They didn’t move. Clearly my sudden appearance had unnerved them. Good; it always makes my authority easier to impose on people who have a healthy fear of what I represent.

Well…I… Sorry. The man said sheepishly.

Forget about it. From what I’ve gathered, you have a really sticky problem on your hands.

The woman nodded, her composure regained. "This guy in there killed his wife, both of us know it for a fact…"

There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, I said, crossing my arms behind my back.

But he’s not an idiot. He covered his tracks pretty well, to make a long story short, and all we have on him is circumstantial.

The man crossed his arms, clearly not liking the fact that the three of us were the center of attention for the whole department. We have the weapon—a knife—that was used to kill his wife, but we can’t link it to him. We have a motive: she was filing for divorce on account of his unfaithfulness and it would have cost him thousands. He has no alibi to speak of, but his Fifth Amendment rights prevent him from testifying against himself.

I’m familiar with the United States Bill of Rights, I said, Along with similar rights of every other country in North America.

Then you know how stuck we are. That summary I just gave you is everything we have on this guy. Save a confession of everything he’s done, he’s gonna walk out of here a free man in the next fifteen minutes.

I studied the looks they were giving me. Though they were trying to hide it, both were hoping I would go in there and absolve this case. You’re absolutely certain this man is guilty? I asked plainly.

They looked at each other, then at me. We had a recorded bit of audio from his wife’s phone when she left it on, the man said, It was a perfect recording of him killing her; she even named him before he really killed her. Problem was, we obtained it without a warrant, her phone went to him, and it’s gone now. No one but us heard the recording because it was immediately deemed illegal to use it as evidence.

They didn’t really need to explain it to me. Their faces and the intensity of their argument were good enough by my standards.

I instructed them to go in the interrogation room and tell the suspect and his lawyer that Someone wanted to see him.

If this seems theatrical, then I’ve done my job well. Ominously telling them that some stranger wants to come in can unsettle people you want to interrogate. Couple that with the fact that the last thing this man expects is for a goddamned Justicar to walk through the door and grill him, and his bearing will crumble.

Which is exactly what happened. I entered the room and slammed the door behind me, instantly gaining the attention of the two men in the room. The suspect in question was a tall, yet stout man with thinning hair by the name of Henry White: a fitting name for the pallor of his skin.

Both Henry and his lawyer jumped at me slamming the door. The lawyer, an older man with wavy, gray hair, stood up to speak. What is this?

"Sit the fuck down!" I shouted at him, pointing at his face. Instant intimidation was required when dealing with people like defense attorneys because they tend to tie people like me up in tedious and ultimately pointless complaints to my superior. Scaring him ensured that he would get wise about doing such a thing. Unless I killed him or close to it, the complaint would be dropped.

He complied with my order, sinking into his chair. I turned my attention to Henry White, slamming my palms onto the cold table he was sitting behind. Propping myself on the table showed Fragrach plainly, and his eyes locked on it. Something I couldn’t have; I wanted his attention on me, not my Executioner. HEY! I yelled into his face. Look at me! Look at me, White! His gaze snapped to my eyes. Fear was overwhelming him. His breathing rate was high, beads of sweat were forming on his ample forehead, and his hands gripped the arms of his chair with white knuckles.

Now, Henry White, I said, bringing down my shouting tone, you stand accused of the great crime of Murder, taking the life of your wife. What was her name again?

D-Diane, he stammered.

Diane. Lovely name, don’t you think? Of course you did; you married her, right?

He looked lost, turning to his lawyer for advice. The lawyer said, Well, yes, Justicar, my client did indeed…uh…marry his wife.

I shot him a vicious glare, then turned my attention back to Henry. So why is it that you decided you wanted to cheat on a woman with such a lovely name?

You don’t have to answer that, the lawyer said.

Now, when I do my job, I like to do so with as little annoyance as possible. I also like working with people who understand what situation they are in when they are under my charge and in my custody. I do not tolerate anyone who steps in and undermines my authority. I say this because I want to make it clear exactly why I exploded on this lawyer like I did.

"Oh, fuck, no! I said, flipping the table to the wall. What the fuck did you just say?! He doesn’t have to answer?! Are you out of your goddamned mind?! I seized the collar of his suit and slammed him into the wall opposite of the overturned table. Who the hell do you think you are?! I’ll warn you, motherfucker, if you do anything that obstructs my process of justice— I pulled out Fragrach and stabbed its wide barrel into his forehead. You are as guilty as the one I’m trying! Don’t think that just because I send you home to your family without a head that I’ll lose any sleep over it! It’s my job, and I take it very fucking seriously!"

He was openly weeping now, completely broken down. Get out! I snapped, releasing him. He didn’t even grab for his papers and briefcase, just bolted for the exit. Through the closed door behind him, I could hear his muffled pleas to the detectives about what I just did. Bark all you want, I thought, you’ll just lose your voice.

I was alone with Henry now. Fragrach weighed my hand down. I chose not to holster it, since it seemed to have a devastating effect on his morale.

Now, Henry, I said, my bearing intact, Let me break it down for you. I’m in a bit of a rush to get serious work done around here, so I’m granting you two options. Option One: You tell those detectives outside the truth in full and you leave my custody. Option Two: I use my power to find the truth anyway, and you get executed without trial by me, and no one on earth will give a damn. Now, Harry, which option do you choose?

Through tears, he moans, Option one. Please don’t kill me, oh, God…

I holstered Fragrach and opened the interrogation room door to the wide eyes of the two detectives. He’s got something to tell you guys, I said, panning the room for the lawyer. Get his lawyer out of wherever he’s hiding and tell him to start working on closing your case.

The woman sighed with relief. Look, I don’t want to know what you said or did in there, but thank you. We’ve been after this guy for two weeks now.

The man nodded and adjusted his maroon tie. This case combined with all the…incidents we’ve been having has made this pretty tense for me and my partner.

I noticed, I said, clasping my hands behind my back. You never did tell me your names, by the way.

Oh, the woman said. Well, I’m Detective Jeanne Corrales, and my partner is Detective Kent Porter.

I nodded. And I am Justicar Brian Galan. Nice to meet you, even if it is…under such grave circumstances.

They nodded and thanked me once again, then proceeded to get the confession from Harry White. I had my original business to attend to, so I briskly walked to Chief Destephano’s office to finally begin my work. I rapped my knuckles on the solid, wood door of the office, and within moments it was swiftly opened by the chief himself.

Chief George Destephano was dressed in full formal regalia, ironed, pressed, and decorated with his rank and achievements. His shoes were shined brightly, his face was more clean-shaven than my scalp, and his haircut was one of the most incredulously perfect high-and-tights I have ever seen. A dark-skinned man with wrinkles scarring his face, Chief Destephano made it clear by his actions and his dress that he, like myself, meant nothing but business.

Justicar, he said plainly, nodding with respect. He was a hair shorter than me, never breaking eye contact.

Chief Destephano, I said, returning the nod with identical demeanor. My name is Justicar Brian Galan, North American Chapter. I have been sent to aid you by the order of North American Chapter Master Daniel Bayer. It was procedure to confirm the reason for my presence to whatever head authority I would be working with, in case I was called for without their knowledge. A formality of course, considering that the man had been informed of the coming Justicar intervention himself. But as I said earlier, I take my job seriously.

Yes, and I for one am relieved, he said. Please, come in, we have much to discuss.

His office was…too neat, and it didn’t seem like he just spruced it up for my arrival, either. Everything about this man was neat, trim, squared away. All his files were in cabinets, and his desk was clean except for his coffee mug (plain white, on a coaster) and some family pictures. Behind his desk was a window with its shades drawn, flanked by the American Flag on its right side and the flag of Michigan on its left. He sat down in his leather-backed chair, offering me a seat in the two similar chairs perfectly paired in front of his desk. I sat in the one on the right and adjusted my seat to face him.

As you may already know, he began, we have been losing good men and women of our force for almost one year running.

This much I know, Destephano.

He leaned forward slightly. I know you have great power, Justicar, he said, his voice deep and smooth, but I would appreciate it if you called me Chief while working in my city. He was not disrespectful in his tone, not challenging at all, just proud of his position.

Fair enough, Chief, I said.

He folded his hands together, neatly of course. I mean no foul, he said, but unlike my predecessor, I am rather prideful of the title I have been given.

Your predecessor? I asked.

I’m not familiar with what briefing procedures you Justicars have, he said, but the reason this streak of murders has been…tolerated for so long is that the former chief of police was too ignorant to accept that we needed help. For this hellish year I, as well as the rest of the force, pushed for your intervention, but it somehow got lost in his desk every time. He was clearly angry at whoever this former chief was. Finally I could take it no longer. I instead fought tooth-and-nail to get him removed from office, hoping to replace him with someone who could take the hint that we needed aid.

I cocked an eyebrow. Something tells me you didn’t want the position as much as people thought you did.

He sighed. No. Frankly, I just wanted that loser gone. But I was promoted by popular demand, and I’ll be damned if I let my new responsibilities slide like that other guy.

I know how you feel, I said.

Indeed. It’s not such a bad job, but I preferred it when I was out there as captain, right here in this department. Made me feel like I was actually working for a living. No matter, though. You’re here now, and we need to get to work.

I particularly enjoyed working with this man. This case wasn’t affecting his morale or his performance at all. In his view, it was just another problem requiring a practical solution, and that solution was to call on the Justicariat for help. Duty is duty.

Over the next three hours he briefed me plainly and entirely on all relevant data, evidence, and reports collected on the matter. He brought in mounds of paperwork, pictures, and shards of evidence in sealed and marked plastic bags. There were enough facts, information, and data to flash-fry a computer’s memory, but it pointed to only one conclusion despite all of its weight: the attacks were being done by one person, definitely a male, roughly six feet tall, working alone. They were perfectly executed ambushes, with methods ranging from improvised explosives, to poisonings, to gunfire. The only way they knew it was one man was because out of sheer luck; two victims survived two separate attacks and concluded that the person ambushing them was the same man. Those two surviving witnesses ended up dying from their injuries.

Everything the facts said to me said that whoever was doing this