Scales of Justice

By Betty L. Alt and Sandra K. Wells

In the a late October night, two shots ring out when a man answers his door, and the shooter quickly drives away. Colorado Springs detectives, Randall Hunter and James Douglass, assume it's a one-time incident until there is another similar murder . . . and then another. Without any leads to the perpetrator, named'the "front-door
killer" by the detectives, all they can do is sit and wait for the next victim.

SCALES of JUSTICE is the fourteenth book co-authored by Sandra Wells and Betty Alt. Wells has a Ph.D. from Colorado State University in Fort Collins while Alt has an M.A. from Northeast Missouri State University. Both authors have taught at the university level and now enjoy the "fascinating hobby" of writing books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664185357

Betty L. Alt

Betty Alt is the author or co-author of numerous books, both fiction and nonfiction. She has an M.A. from Northeast Missouri State University and has taught at several colleges and universities in the U.S. and overseas. Alt is now retired and living in Tennessee.

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Copyright © 2021 by Betty L. Alt and Sandra K. Wells.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/15/2021

Xlibris

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For Warren, Rob, Jon and Eden who tolerate the

hours we spend writing

This reasonable moderator, and equal piece of justice, Death.

Sir Thomas Browne, Religio Medici

A crisp March breeze rustled the Cottonwood trees and stirred the branches of a dead rose bush as a figure walked up the chipped sidewalk of the stucco house and pressed the doorbell. Tall shrubs, a few dead leaves still clinging to their branches, stood along the walk and on the sides of the low step, blocking any light cast by a tall lamp across the street.

From inside the house came the sound of a televised baseball game and shouts from those watching. Again, the individual at the door pressed the buzzer and could hear movement as someone swore at the interruption and finally trudged to the door. Peering through the screen, a tall dark-haired man snarled.

Yeah! What’ya want?

"Excuse me. Are you Emanuel Grange?

Yeah! Who wants to know?

Immediately two quick shots rang out, and Grange crumpled toward the floor. He fell on his back, eyes open, blood seeping into the faded red shag carpet. The smell of gun residue and a faint scent from a nearby pine tree hung in the still air. Immediately a black-helmeted figure rushed to the street, and a car moved quietly away from the curb.

===============

Randall Hunter, homicide detective with the Colorado Springs Police Department, was relaxing in his leather recliner as he watched the Colorado Rockies try to win a pre-season game. It was the seventh inning stretch, and his Ultimate Meat Pizza had just been delivered. Recently, he and his partner had closed out a nasty double homicide case, and for the minute life was good.

However, Hunter knew he was on call and that his reverie could be interrupted at any moment. Just as he was finishing his second slice of pizza, the phone rang. Great! He thought as he grabbed the phone. It’s a tied game; knew I would get a call.

Hunter! he said briefly.

Good evening, Detective Hunter, the CSPD dispatcher said. We have a homicide at 1428 Center Street. Detective Douglass has already been notified.

Thanks! On my way. Be there in 10, Hunter responded. Strapping on his weapon, he grabbed his jacket and headed toward the door. Longingly he looked back at his pizza and recliner as he shut off the television, stepped into the cool night air, and locked the door behind him.

Quickly Hunter got into his unmarked car, hit the lights, and headed to the scene. As he turned the street corner onto Center, he could see the lights of the squad cars flashing red in the night. He parked and badged his way through the yellow tape.

Is Douglass here yet? he asked the officer standing by the tape and keeping back a few onlookers.

Yes sir. He just arrived and is over there in front of the victim’s house with the responding officers, Stone and Wilson.

Hunter glanced in the direction the officer was pointing and saw his partner standing with two uniformed officers. James Douglass, fifty-five years old with a mop of graying curls on his head and a moustache of the same color, had droopy eyes and looked like everyone’s grandfather. He mostly wore brown slacks and a tweed sports jacket with patches on the sleeves. Usually, the top button of his shirt was undone, and hanging loosely was a tie that always appeared to have seen better days.

Married thirty-three years, Douglass had two girls and three grandchildren and had been with the CSPD since he was twenty years old. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about the city and policing. When Hunter had arrived in Colorado Springs nine months earlier, he had immediately been partnered with Douglass. Best thing that’s ever happened to me Hunter thought.

Lifting the crime scene tape, Hunter moved toward the house and joined Douglass who was standing with two officers. Rough neighborhood Hunter thought again. I’ve been in this area on other homicides, and gunfire from gangs is unfortunately a common occurrence. The houses are small, probably about 1,000 square feet, and too close together. All seem to be in need of repair.

Hey, Douglass! Long time no see, Hunter said as he walked up to the front steps and nodded at the two officers.

Funny, Hunter. You know officers Stone and Wilson? They were the ones first on the scene. We have one man dead. Shot twice in the head as he stood in the door. Actually shot through the screen door. Maybe a .22, no brass. The man’s name, . . . Douglass stalled as he looked at his notes, was Emanuel Grange, 32 years old. He was 6 foot 2 inches, about 228 pounds, black hair, brown eyes. Told that he had just rented the property.

Evening, officers. What else do we know? Hunter asked the two patrolmen as he pulled out his notebook and pen and waited for one of them to respond.

Looking at them, Hunter noted their youthful appearance and wondered if either were over twenty-one. Stone and Wilson looked at each other for a minute. Finally, Wilson stepped closer to the detectives and began to explain.

We got the call at 8:48 a. m. and arrived at 8:57. Soon as we got to the scene, we were met in the front yard by Grange’s father, Albert Grange, fifty-two years old. He briefly told us what happened. He was pretty hysterical as you can imagine. Said he and his son and a couple of his son’s friends were in the basement watching the Rockies game. They heard the doorbell ring, but his son said he wasn’t expecting anyone and didn’t go upstairs right away. The doorbell kept ringing so his son went up.

The officer paused for a moment and then continued. The old man said that they had the game on loud, and they were all yelling as the game was tied. The three guys were arguing as one of them wanted the Dodger’s to win instead of the Rockies. Wilson paused for a minute to catch his breath.

Anyway, they hear a couple of pops, not very loud, didn’t think much about it. When his son didn’t come back down, Albert went upstairs. He found his son at the front door with his head covered in blood, and he wasn’t breathing. Dad said he got on the phone, called 911 and yelled at the guys in the basement to come upstairs. They were all out in the front yard when we arrived.

Tell me they didn’t walk through the crime scene at the door, Hunter asked as he was writing.

No! They all three told me they went out through the side door. We cleared the house by going in the side, so the scene has not been disturbed, Officer Wilson replied. We have them separated in patrol cars.

Jim, let’s have a look, Hunter said to his partner as he walked up to the screen door, making certain that they didn’t walk on any footprints or other potential evidence. He could see holes in the screen, and by leaning over and peering inside, he also could see that the wooden door opened to the left. Grange’s body was on the floor about four feet inside, directly behind the door, and reclining in a sitting position against the wall. There appeared to be a four-foot by four-foot entry that opened to the right into a living room.

Let’s go around to the side door, Jim, and take a look through the house, Hunter said.

As they walked in the side door, they found a narrow stairway that headed downstairs. Moving on, they entered a small kitchen with very dirty linoleum, its edges curling away from scarred baseboard. In a corner was an old pink stove with a frying pan full of congealed grease sitting on one burner, and a chipped sink that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for some time held a stack of dirty dishes. No doors were on the kitchen cabinets, and cereal boxes and snacks had been shoved into them.

Walking through the kitchen to the small living room immediately off the entryway where the victim’s body still lay, they found more stained red shag carpet like that in the hall. A couch and an old brown-striped recliner filled nearly half of the room. Hunter noted that there was nothing of a personal nature in the room, no family photos, no paintings on the walls, no knickknacks of any kind.

Moving to the entryway, the detectives looked at the body propped up against the wall. There was significant blood as there always was with a head injury. Douglass and Hunter both stood back from the scene for a few minutes.

Looks like the vic walked to the door, opened it, and was shot in the head through the screen. Looks like two shots. Doesn’t look like the shooter came inside, Hunter said, getting as near the body as he dared without the forensics team checking first. Then more to himself than Douglass, he added, Let’s go downstairs."

Walking back through the kitchen, they turned to the basement and found more dirty shag carpeting on the stairs, badly painted walls, and an unpainted cement floor. Near its walls were an old couch covered with a torn green and white knitted afghan and two side chairs in orange and green flowered upholstery which showed several rips. However, on a table against the wall opposite the couch and chairs was a fairly new large-screen television.

It’s good to have priorities, Douglass said, shaking his head as he noted the dilapidated furniture and bare floor.

You call for forensics, Jim? Hunter asked.

Yeh, I did when I saw what we had. Douglass replied. They just pulled up, and the coroner is on his way, too.

"Okay, let’s get some officers to canvas the neighborhood and see if anyone saw or heard anything. Since this area has a lot of crime, usually nobody will say if they heard or saw