Justice of Brenda The Wolverine

By Alex Markman

Edward Green, a likable, young, successful professional, he had seemed happy with life. The only son of rich and generous parents, he had a good career, a loving girlfriend, and plenty of friends. So why did he cut his veins in his luxury condo apartment? Melissa Bonar, one of the best homicide detectives in Canada, is on the case. She found no

• Language: English
• Publisher: Asteroid Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781926720708

Book preview

JUSTICE OF BRENDA

THE WOLVERINE

JUSTICE OF BRENDA

THE WOLVERINE

Alex Markman

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Copyright © by Alex Markman 2019

All rights reserved.

Asteroid Publishing, Inc.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Markman, Alex

Justice of Brenda, the Wolverine / by Alex Markman.

Issued also in electronic format.

ISBN 978-1-926720-54-8 

Justice of Brenda the Wolverine is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, organizations or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Other novels by Alex Markman

Payback for Revenge

Messenger of Death

Contra-ODESSA

The Dark Days of Love

The Drama and Mockery of Fate

Chapter 1

The peaceful, melancholic beauty of the rural scenery outside the car window was not in accord with the mood of Melissa Bonar. The thirty-two-year-old woman with nicely manicured nails, a simple but elegant haircut, and a calm, all-understanding expression in her blue eyes could easily be taken for a corporate executive. Which she was not. She was a homicide detective, heading for a trailer park to find a woman named Brenda. It was a place populated mostly by trash—criminals, alcoholics, drug addicts, and other people of low esteem who had lost hope for a better life and had no skills for a meaningful employment. Melissa never knew what to expect from the trailer people. Many were psychotic, with nervous systems damaged by years in prison, alcohol and drug abuse, with behaviour that had nothing to do with common sense or consideration for consequences.

Enjoy the view? asked the driver, gesturing with his right hand at the tranquil undulation of a golf course. The younger cop’s left hand lay casually on the steering wheel. Larry was blond, very handsome, and armed to his teeth. He was just in his late twenties, but competent, hardened by many violent assignments. He smiled most of time, distracting the attention of young women.

Melissa nodded yes, although the beauty of the world was the least of her concern. She knew too well the other side of the coin: the ills of humanity, the horror and cruelty of its deeds happening every hour, everywhere, regardless of weather conditions and scenery.

After a brief, absent-minded observation of nature, she returned her thoughts to the task at hand. So far Melissa had not found any evidence that linked Brenda Rorke, the suspect, to the case that had landed on Melissa’s desk two weeks earlier. A young man, Edward Green, had been sodomized in his own apartment. The rape was rather weird: no trace of struggle or resistance, but rape it was, not consensual sex, for sure. His girlfriend had found him in the evening. The door was unlocked. She found Edward sitting in a chair, in jeans, naked from the waist up. The last drops of blood were still oozing from the cuts to his veins. She called the police. She might have saved him, if she had taped the cuts, but she was not up to the situation. She was hysterical, frightened, confused.

By the time the ambulance arrived, Edward was dead. It was the post mortem that had revealed that he had been raped not long before his veins were cut. Except for that, the death definitely looked like suicide. The sharp pocketknife used to make the cuts bore his fingerprints. His shirt was on the sofa, neatly folded, as if prepared for the night out. Everything in the apartment was in good order. No signs of struggle, or use of force. In sharp contrast to this neatness was the pool of blood, which was almost dry when the photographs of the crime scene—if it was a crime—had been taken.

Did he say anything before he died? the policeman had asked Edward’s girlfriend.

I’ve made out only one word, she said, sobbing and shaking. Wolverine. He was out of his mind, though. He was almost dead. He didn’t recognize me. It didn’t make sense.

She said that Edward was a very nice guy, always in a good mood, had no enemies, had lots of friends, was a moderate drinker, and was admired by girls. After graduating university, he found a good job as an electronic engineer and was pretty good at his profession. She repeated that Edward had many friends, male and female, frequented parties, but intended to marry her, as he was, by her account, madly in love with her.

Wolverine. Assuming that was someone’s nickname, Melissa ran through police records, and got nothing. But investigation of prison records found it in the files of the high-security prison for female offenders: Brenda Rorke, incarcerated for five years, and paroled six months ago. At the time of her release, Brenda had not been considered a high-risk offender anymore, so it took some time to find out her whereabouts; she had settled not far from Toronto with a man belonging to an outlaw biker gang.

Before setting off to meet Brenda, Melissa had carefully studied the prison file. Brenda’s face in photographs, pretty though it was, did not arouse sympathy; however, it was not as menacing as some of her actions would suggest. She was a mix of contradictions. She had spent her early incarceration in the maximum-security pod, where the most dangerous cons, presenting security risks for inmates, were held as punishment for violence toward others. But later she had been praised as a nice, well-behaved, model prisoner, likable, and polite most of the time with correction officers. During her years in prison, and during probation, her behaviour had been impeccable. She had studied accounting and completed education programs, via correspondence courses while in prison, and then, while on probation, with evening courses. Her IQ and educational level were considered very high.

Here’s our pet Wolverine, Larry said, pulling in close to the driveway of a mobile home. A huge, Jimmy Carter–like smile on his face assured Melissa that she was being taken care of by competent hands.

You sure we have the right place? Melissa asked, stepping out of the unmarked car. Like a sponge, she was absorbing every detail of the neighbourhood.

Two cars stood in the narrow driveway, one after another. The closest to the road was a Nissan. It looked almost new, with sparkling chrome and a shiny black body, and should have been beyond the means of someone living in that neighbourhood. The other was a Ford, a few years old, but in good condition. Neither car was in harmony with the cheap trailer.

I’ve been here a few times, Larry said, stepping out. Once I even had to clean my gun. I hate that job.

You mean cleaning? Melissa asked. She spotted a small number sign under the roof. Indeed, this was the house.

Exactly. He sneered.

Have your badge ready, she said with a frown.

No need. If they ask about me, tell them I’m your lover.

Shut up. Who would believe that such a Quasimodo is my lover? Melissa pushed the car door shut and started toward the small porch. Sometimes Larry was too frivolous at work, but he was a good cop and meant no offence.

She looked back. Larry, in civilian clothes, was already smoking a cigarette, which entertained him in boring times. He raised his hand in a sign of encouragement.

Melissa knocked, prepared to wait. Unexpectedly, the door opened rather quickly. A woman stood behind the threshold, dressed in a light-green bathrobe. Her mane of brown hair was tightened into a long ponytail, and a touch of makeup indicated her good sense of balance when it came to her countenance. She was pretty, but not sweet in a feminine way: her face was hostile, and conveyed a strong, baleful will. Her robe opened wide at the top, showing firm, heavy breasts. Though they might not be an asset for one of the best and well-respected detectives in Canada, Melissa would have loved to have such bosom; there was no doubt that her husband, a dean of philosophy, would appreciate it no less than her intellectual capacity.

Melissa showed her badge and introduced herself in a calm but firm voice. Are you Brenda Rorke?

Not saying a word, the woman closed the door shut. Melissa stood for half a minute in silence, waiting, deciding what to do next. She looked left and right. No one was outside, although it was almost ten in the morning. That was good. Melissa didn’t want any attention.

She was about to knock on the door again when it suddenly opened, and the woman came outside, closing the door behind her. She wore the same robe, but had put on sandals.

What do you want? she asked, rather unfriendly, but not with acidity, as Melissa had expected.

Are you Brenda Rorke? she asked again.

Yes.

Mind if we talk? This won’t take long.

Okay. Brenda nodded in the direction of a table set at the edge of the front lawn. It was of solid construction, with two heavy benches, the type used in public parks. Most likely stolen. Let’s sit there.

Why not inside? Melissa asked, following.

My boyfriend is sleeping. He’s not well these days.

They settled on the benches, facing each other. Brenda observed Melissa with the jealous scrutiny of a woman and the irritation of a former con.

Do you know Edward Green? Melissa asked, putting a photograph of a handsome man on the table. Brenda cast a casual, indifferent glance at the photograph and raised her eyes. Melissa watched her with acute attention, in search for that peculiar, hardly detectable twitch of lashes, or tiny muscle contraction, or unexplainable, unidentifiable, momentary change of expression, that signals a lie. She found nothing.

No, came the curt answer. Melissa let a short pause sink in.

Sure?

Sure. What about him? Why do you ask? Her stare was heavy and depressing, like an ominous thunderstorm cloud.

This man was raped, and killed…

Melissa didn’t have a chance to finish. Brenda interrupted her with an angry guffaw. And you think I raped him? Mind telling me how I could do that?

Wait, wait, Melissa said. You’re not a suspect. I…

At that moment, a tall and heavily built man in his mid thirties came out of the mobile home and stopped on the porch. The dense beard, bandana, and tattoos on his thick arms gave him the look of an outlaw biker.

What’s this twat want? he asked, looking at Melissa as a pit bull eyes an intruder. Melissa felt goose bumps gathering on her neck. Was he the type who acted out on impulses of hatred and destruction? When drugged, those guys were loose cannons.

Get back, Brenda commanded, not turning her head. The man hesitated a few seconds, then retreated.

So you don’t suspect me in raping this guy, whatever his name is? Brenda chuckled. She put her elbows on the table, tangled the fingers of her hands together, and rested her chin on the back of her hands.

You’re making fun of the situation, Brenda. But you know…

I know you think that you’re the smartest ass in the world, Brenda said, cutting her off. All of you…

This time Melissa interrupted her. You’re right. The idea of a woman as a rapist is usually something of a stretch. But the more I talk to you, the more I get the feeling that you had something to do with this.

Brenda’s chin was still rested on her hands. Not a single muscle twitched on her face. Her stare said, Die, bitch.

The brief stretch of silence put Melissa on edge, but she had enough self-control to wait for Brenda’s response.

Very good, woman. You write a report about your feelings, and bring it to the court as evidence, scoffed Brenda. See if the judge cares how you feel. Though since you’re a cop, I won’t be surprised if your word would be sufficient.

Let’s change the subject, Melissa suggested. Your nickname is Wolverine, right?

A wry smile distorted Brenda’s face. It was. Long time ago. Now I’m just Brenda. So what?

So before Edward Green died, he said the name Wolverine. That’s why I’m here. I just thought that you might be able to shed some light on the case.

I can’t.

Just for curiosity, why that nickname? Any reason?

Brenda shrugged. Already looked into Webster, did you?

Smart. Too smart, Melissa thought. Yes, I looked into Webster. Among other things, it says, that the wolverine is a ‘cunning, fearless predator that will attack almost any animal, including sheep, deer, and small bears.’ Now, I can see you doing that, but not because you cannot control yourself. Your records say you can.

You think I’m a predator? Brenda asked with a trace of a smile.

Yes. Do you mind taking a polygraph test? Melissa asked.

Brenda narrowed her eyes. What for? she asked. She looked as though she was seconds away from darting forward and locking her jaws on Melissa’s throat. Ready to pounce.

Why else? To make sure you tell the truth. Something’s coming. Melissa felt it.

You wanna know if I tell the truth, eh?

Melissa nodded. Brenda leaned forward.

I don’t give a shit if you trust me or not, she said. There’s no need for your fucking polygraph.

I’d advise you to watch your language. My patience is not endless, said Melissa. So far as the polygraph is concerned, it’s for your benefit.

Really? Okay, let’s make a deal. I’ll go to your fucking polygraph—oh, shit…pardon my language—if before you wire me up you give me a written note stating that if I successfully pass your fucking test, you’ll never talk to me again regarding this case, that I will never be a suspect in that case, whatever that case might be…

Look, I can’t give you— It was one of the rare instances when Melissa felt like a fool.

Brenda laughed. Shove your fucking polygraph machine up your ass, detective, she said, with cold, fearless hatred. My life was ruined long before you came here. I don’t care about it anymore. Now you’d better beat it outta here. It’s not safe in the neighbourhood, you know.

Melissa swallowed the insult. Part of the job, she thought, although it usually made her sick. The conversation was going nowhere. Perhaps a tack that was more conciliatory—chitchat-friendly blabber, with neutral topics? All Melissa wanted was some tiny, miniscule detail, a feeble hint that might eventually help her with the case. Brenda might not have been a partner to the crime, but still she might know something about it, or about the people who did it. She obviously was a hard nut, able to withstand any direct pressure. Melissa already was sure about that.

You have a nice car. Nissan is yours, is it?

Yes. Brenda frowned, studying Melissa’s face. How’d yah find me? You have a mole in the gang?

There was a mole in her boyfriend’s gang, but Melissa let the question pass. It was easy to find you. You registered your own business, which you advertise on the Internet. You bought the Nissan. Beautiful car, by the way. Your website is really well done, too. You hired someone good for that.

For the first time during the conversation, Brenda’s face softened into a faint smile. I did it. Myself. She said it casually, but pride leaked through the effort to restrain her feelings.

Where did you learn? Melissa asked with genuine surprise.

All by myself. In prison, and while on parole, I spent as much time at the computer as I could. Actually, there’s lots of software that makes building a website easy. It’s just a matter of time and patience.

You deserve respect for that, Melissa said, with all sincerity.

Brenda shrugged and looked away, toward where Larry leaned against the car, smoking.

My mother was a cleaning woman. She did her best to raise me, but it wasn’t much.

You have lots of clients, don’t you?

Melissa knew already that Brenda offered her services as an accountant: she did personal tax returns for individuals and bookkeeping and taxes for small businesses. She did quite well, as far as Melissa could tell. Her bathrobe was cozy, of good quality, and obviously not cheap.

Yes. At times I’m busy into late evening. After a moment of hesitation, she added, Anything I do, I try to do better than anyone else.

You deserve a better life, Melissa said, with emphasis.

Thank you. Brenda sounded almost friendly. Actually, my life isn’t bad. It could be even better, unless…

Melissa’s heart skipped a bit. Unless what? she asked.

Brenda uttered a short laugh. Life plays stupid tricks on us.

How’d you manage all of that? Melissa asked. Education, practice…it must’ve taken lots of time and effort.

It does, Brenda agreed, more relaxed. I didn’t have a chance, like some, to go to a private school or a daytime university. But you know what? Learning isn’t all hardship. It’s fun. If you really want to learn, and have some brains, you don’t need the best teachers in the world. She paused, and observed Melissa’s face with acute but benevolent scrutiny. Did you go to a private school?

It was as an unexpected blow in the stomach. But Melissa did not want to lie.

Yes, I did, she said, as calmly as she could.

Brenda nodded, as if saying, I understand. And then, with the same smile, she said, You came here because you wanna take me back to prison?

Melissa gasped. Look— she started, but Brenda’s laugh interrupted her.

Good luck with that. Brenda rose to her feet, not listening anymore. She threw a glance at the car on the road, showed Larry her middle finger, and walked to the porch.

Chapter 2

The judge sentenced her to five years in high-security prison. For a girl only nineteen years old, it was a hard pill to swallow, but Brenda had prepared herself for the worst. For some reason, there were unexpected turns for the worst at every step she’d taken. Her intuition and gut feelings told her that humility, admitting her guilt, promising good behaviour, and begging for mercy would do the trick, and help turn back the tide of mishaps. However, doing that was so much against her nature and understanding of justice that she preferred to accept the worst-case scenario rather than trample her own soul and pride.

Of course, she hadn’t know how bad worst-case could be, but that didn’t break her resolve. She didn’t fear the future; she was looking forward to it. On her way to prison, she expected all kinds of hardships, abuse, and violence, and was in a mood to fight back no matter what. Much later, she understood the reason for her bellicose mood. She saw the same thing in other inmates. The whole penitentiary system was humiliating, soul trumping. The more humans are humiliated, the stronger their reaction to any disrespect, and even more so for bullying or abuse. Repeated confrontations blind the mind, making it momentarily incapable of considering consequences. Brenda felt it stronger than any of the others. It wasn’t just the prison misery that beat her down; she had also been humiliated in court beyond the limit of her understanding.

The federal prison camp was a relief after the jail, where she had to put up with small cells, foul smells, and lack of freedom. What a joy it was to walk around, breath fresh air, and look at the sky and know if it was dark or bright. The people did not seem especially hostile, at least at first, as she had expected. Some of the women even smiled and joked with her and the other new arrivals. Inside the barracks, called cottages there, inmates kept their limited spaces and meagre possessions tidy, and even tried to put up decorations, such as artificial flowers, to create an illusion of a sweet home ambience. But the long years of separation from the free world and normal life left an ugly imprint on their faces.

Brenda quickly learned that the seemingly peaceful atmosphere in the cottages was also an illusion. After all, the inmates had suffered many times through indignities and trials that humans are not designed to bear. Most of them were tense, with the fuse of patience burning down fast with the slightest irritation.

Do the women fight here? Brenda had asked the woman whose bed was next to hers.

Sometimes, her cellmate said. "Usually people try to avoid it. It affects your chance for parole, halfway