Makeshift Justice

Jack Bessie is the creator of the website, Jack Bessie’s Duct Tape for the Soul https://www.jackofwords.com It is filled with all sorts of insightful, funny, crazy and profoundly motivating stuff!

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A Thought on Justice

We hunger for justice, both as individuals and as a people. The innocent cry out for it, demand it. When it is denied, something precious within our soul dies, the fabric of our society and civilization is torn and stained.

All moral codes require justice, and even the most primitive systems of human interaction treasure this essential thing. Our own system of law is built upon this, upon the concept of justice; it forms the foundation, the bedrock of our country.

It is a simple thing, justice, demanding that the wicked, the evildoer be punished, and the innocent victim be protected or restored. It is what requires the murderer to forfeit his own life, in payment for the life he ended, the thief to replace or pay for what he has stolen.

Alas, our society is becoming confused, losing sight of this fundamental understanding. Many people have become obsessed with understanding the guilty, excusing and forgiving their evil and ignoring those who have been wronged.

No civilization can tolerate this and survive.

Occasionally, a determined soul finds a way to create the justice that is so desperately needed. This is a story of one.

Jack

Dedication

To Mrs. Catherine Eddy

An amazing teacher, of boundless optimism, who believed my lies and story telling were an indication of talent, and thought I could become a writer if I would only overcome my aversion to the study of English. It only took me almost forty years to see if she was correct!

1

It had begun innocuously enough. Hello, this call is for Mr. Richardson, and Hugh expected some boring telemarketing pitch. That expectation ended abruptly, moments after he confirmed his Identity. The man’s voice continued with, My name is Vali. Are you prepared for retribution Hugh? The time has come at last for your evil and wickedness to be punished! You must face the wrath of God! Search your memory and you should find a most grievous sin that you must atone for. If you are not man enough to face the judgment, your innocent family will be punished! I will speak to you again soon! The call clicked off, leaving a deathly silence. Hugh felt paralyzed, his mouth going dry and a sense of dread gripped him.

What in hell’s name was that about!? he wondered half out loud. A passing co-worker, thinking he was speaking to him stopped and interrupted his trance.

What was that you said?

Startled, it took a moment for Hugh to reply. Oh…uh, Shawn…I just had the damnedest crank call on my voice mail…here, you listen to it. He handed his phone to Shawn, pushed the button to replay the call. Shawn was as perplexed as Hugh.

"Wow, that’s some crazy shit! the astounded co-worker whispered, shaking his head. I hope I don’t get a call like that!" Shawn looked at Hugh with furrowed brows, leaned

down and said quietly, "You better hope that’s just a crank call!" Annoyed, Hugh shooed him away.

Hugh Richardson was a quiet, reasonable man, deliberate and not prone to excess emotionalism. Being a senior risk analyst for T. Marting Specialty Insurance Company, meant long hours wading through reams of documents looking for information and reasons that could be used to approve or disapprove new policies and assign levels of risk. By some peoples reckoning, Hugh’s job would have been considered a boring, tedious, grind…about as exciting as sorting through piles of other people’s dirty underwear. Most would not have regarded it that highly.

Frankly, if Hugh himself had seen a listing of his job when he was working on his business degree, he would have laughed at the absurdity of it. Like most people, he had dreamed of having, not so much a job, as a position, something challenging or exciting; a rung up on the ladder of success, leading to power and prestige.

Unfortunately, reality, in the form of a new wife…actually a new and pregnant wife, student loans, and the desire to afford a home, had combined with a slow economy to make Hugh much more flexible as to what path his career would take.

A recruiting firm talked him into interviewing for a position with a specialized insurance firm and the offer they made him proved impossible to refuse. He had moved around in the company and ended up learning the ropes in the risk analysis section, rightly seeing a well paying and secure nitch. He had been at it ever since, his meticulous and analytical nature proving a perfect match for his duties. Certainly he was not prone to panic; no one would have ever accused him of being excessively emotional.

Hugh spent the most of the afternoon replaying the call for co-workers, who all offered advice from the stupid, Could be the grim reaper to the scary; Hope you don’t get stabbed or something in the parking garage! Eventually the event lost some of its impact, especially when someone pointed out that anyone calling their division would get the interactive voice response unit and a list of names; for Hugh Richardson, press number nine. It was probably a prankster or stupid college student trying to freak people out. And doing a great job! Hugh thought, thoroughly aggravated. Several of his co-workers remarked at the odd sound of the caller’s voice, it having a metallic or electronic tone. With his afternoon thoroughly pissed-away, Hugh was glad to leave for his forty minute drive home. Once he was in his car, having encountered no stalker in the garage, he was able to forget about the call, focusing on staying alive in the traffic.

After the requisite round of dodge car, Hugh completed the drive from downtown Columbus north to Mayhaven, arriving at his suburban home where he resided with his wife Ellen, daughters Clairine, fourteen and Heather, aged nine. When Hugh had taken the position with T. Marting, they had moved from a suburb of Chicago to the outskirts of Columbus and rented a house, but had soon realized that they were tired of living in a larger city. When their lease expired they moved to the smaller town, purchasing a house and had been generally pleased. Both of the girls liked the Catholic schools they had been enrolled in, in spite of much initial moaning by Clairine, but the more demanding learning environment had suited the studious teen. Over half of the students were non-Catholics, enrolled for the strict and achievement oriented learning environment, a fact that had helped Clairine to not feel like an outsider. The fact that she had found many of the boys to be quiet, studious, polite, friendly and several of them to be handsome, as in cute or hot looking, had transformed her apprehension into excitement.

Hugh’s arrival found Clairine helping her mother cook while Heather was playing with the family dog, a ratty looking, part poodle, part unknown mutt, named Oscar. When the phone rang, Hugh was reminded of his call at work, and, as Clairine ran off with the phone, (it was for her, after all), Hugh told Ellen about the call. She was sympathetic, as it was clear to her that he was deeply bothered by the call. In a way, she was almost relieved that for once Hugh’s tense mood had a definable source. Lately they had been having frequent arguments and were often cross with each other, for no obvious reason. When Ellen had tried to discover more of how Hugh really felt, or gain his input into what was wrong with their relationship, he had been testy and insisted that he was happy and nothing was wrong…at least with him. Ellen had been offended by that sneaky insinuation, which implied that whatever fault existed must be hers. She had let it go, but now here was a threat to all of them. When Clairine returned, neither of them spoke further of it.

Dinner was uneventful, meaning good food, with no whining about vegetables, and pleasant conversation. After dinner and residual chores, Ellen and Hugh retired to the den with coffee to spend some quiet time together feeling an instinctive need to be together. Heather was off getting ready for bed and Clairine was at the computer in the dining room, online with friends, something she was only allotted 30 minutes for. She had also taken several calls from friends and brought the phone to her mom twice. Hugh, who spent all day with phone and e-mail, was only too happy to be free of the accursed devices in the evening. After a zillion other calls Clairine appeared once more but this time approached her father, It’s for Mr. Richardson, she whispered politely while conveying disbelief that anyone would be calling the man of the house.

Hugh expected some sort of pitch for a donation or sale when he said, Hello, this is Hugh.

However, the hair on the back of his neck arose when the voice said, "Hello Hugh, this is Vali. I trust you have a moment to hear me. You are wondering if I’m some crazy nut or some crank. I assure you sir, I am neither. You want me to give you a sign of why you should listen to me and not ever hang up? Your wife’s name is Ellen. She’s a very lovely woman of thirty seven. You have two daughters, Clairine and Heather. Clairine is fourteen; she plays soccer and has shoulder length auburn hair. She has a scar on her upper arm inside at the juncture of her shoulder and she has perky breasts with inverted nipples. Heather is nine. She has long light brown hair. She has a scar on her left foot under her middle toe. She has a quarter-inch diameter freckle on her mons-pubis. You should ask yourself what else I might know about you and your family! I asked you before if you were ready for retribution. Hugh, you are going to suffer, my friend. I will be in touch. Have a nice evening…while you still can!"

The call ended with a small, static filled click, leaving only silence. The voice was gone and with it seemingly had departed Hugh’s sense of tranquility in life.

Honey, what’s wrong? Ellen asked, seeing the look on Hugh’s face go from curious to starkly alarmed. He dropped the phone on the table as if it were a poisonous creature.

It’s him again, he spoke quietly for Ellen. Clairine came into the room, eagerly intending to snatch the cordless phone again. No! Hugh commanded, startling his daughter. He continued more gently, You need to get ready for bed.

But dad! she started to plead, yet when she saw his face she quickly said, Alright! and turned and glumly stomped up the stairs. Hugh sat silently waiting with Ellen until he heard Clairine enter her bedroom and close the door. He tried to give his wife a precise account of all the caller had said leaving out the intimate details of his description.

Hugh…what else did he say…what has you so shocked? Ellen asked.

He took a deep breath, and glanced over his shoulder to make certain the girls weren’t around to eavesdrop and explained about the description of Clairine’s breasts and Heathers freckle. I know Heather has that freckle…she was born with it…but…does Clairine...ah…have…uh…her nipples…uh…? he asked sheepishly.

Inverted nipples? Yes, she does! Ellen whispered, terrified that someone had apparently seen both of her girls naked, sometime. But when? She could think of no rational possibility. We should call the police, she prompted, understanding with terrible clarity her husband’s fear.

I suppose, Hugh agreed, but I doubt if they will be of much help. Hugh could not imagine what the police could do. Unless the caller was a complete idiot, he wouldn’t be calling from a phone that was traceable. I want the girls to get to bed and I’ll call, Hugh said, putting aside his reluctance in response to his wife’s frightened appearance.

After hugging the girls and getting them upstairs for good, Hugh called the city police and described the calls. The dispatcher offered to send an officer out when one was available and, one hour and twenty seven minutes later, (Hugh counted), an officer arrived.

Officer Perkins listened to Hugh’s description of both calls and he thought the intimate details of the girls made the calls threatening enough to warrant an incidence report. Ellen was thankful that Clairine was in bed, as she would have been utterly embarrassed to hear her breasts discussed as if they were skid marks at an accident scene. The officer promised that someone from the department would follow up with them and left.

As Hugh went through the house locking the doors and windows for the third time Ellen stopped him and hugged him. I’m scared, she finally confided.

I know, he replied gently kissing her hair.

It sucks to be afraid in your own home, she whispered.

Yeah, but I’ll not let this nut scare the girls, he responded, trying to sound braver than he felt. But let’s make damn sure we set the alarm at night…just to be sure, he hastily added, trying to shake the feeling that there was some evil treat, a sort of monster lurking in the darkness all around their house.

2

Mario LaCone was three hours into his evening shift as a detective in Mayhaven when he got a chance to look through the paperwork sitting in his in-box on his desk at the police station. His desk was one of a handful stuck randomly in a small room in the back corner of the department, an area lovingly referred to by all members of the department as the ass-crack of the city building. Most were routine updates on court cases or investigations but one caught his attention; an incident patrol report on the Richardson household. A threat to someone’s family elicited instant empathy from Mario.

Mario was 57, balding, stocky, but in great shape, and single…actually a widower. Born in the Bronx, Mario had always wanted to be a detective but after an endless childhood of playing cops and robbers his dream was put on hold. At nineteen he had received his draft notice and impulsively went ahead and joined the Marines. Mario wanted to choose his fate and succeeded in making it into the snipers. Considering that Mario had only fired a gun a few times, while visiting relatives far from New York, his ability to shoot accurately had been amazing to him. After his tour in Nam, he came home to discover that his high school sweetheart was pregnant with someone else’s child. Disappointed and angry but pragmatic, Better to find out she was a faithless slut before I married her, he thought, he applied himself to making the N.Y.P.D. and succeeded. He found the training to be easily do-able, much easier than Marine boot camp had been, and while others had struggled to qualify with a gun, Mario had been a lethal and precise shooter. No one ever doubted that he could defend himself.

At twenty four years old, one hot summer afternoon, Mario was just preparing to ticket a car which had encroached two feet over a yellow no-parking line when the cutest young woman he had ever seen (at least that’s how he always remembered it) came breathlessly running up pleading with him not to ticket her car.

Frankly, Mario had no interest in writing another damn ticket but he sternly demanded to see her license and registration. She was petite and had dark brown, almost black, hair and eyes. Wearing a sleeveless summer dress and sandals, which revealed pink painted nails, she was clearly in distress, bouncing from foot to foot while pleading with him to please, please, please! not write a ticket. Mario was as amused by her plight, she actually acted like she might wet herself, as he was captivated by her loveliness. Well, young lady, I see your name is Catherine…this is your car?

Yes sir, everyone calls me Kitty and I’ll do anything if you’ll let me move my car! she ran her words breathlessly together. Mario looked her up and down. Kitty seeing his frank appraisal, blushed and hastily added, stammering "Anything but…that."

Mario grinned, Okay then, how about dinner tomorrow evening, he asked. Kitty, relieved, agreed and they settled on the where and when. He was overjoyed when she appeared at the appointed place and time, having expected to be stood up, and the evening flew by delightfully. A few more evenings were spent and it became apparent that Kitty was as smitten with Mario as he was with her. And she was even willing to do that after all. In May of the following year they married and settled in a small house in a quiet neighborhood.

Kitty was soon pregnant with Jami Marie and Mario advanced from patrol work to working on a gang unit. By the time Jami was one, Kitty had become apprehensive of Mario’s

work and he avoided talking much about it. He had been threatened numerous times as had all his colleagues but he shrugged it off as part of the job. One thug in particular, whose nickname was the Knife threatened to get your family, cop, as he was hauled off to jail. Since he received a ten to twenty year sentence, Mario wasted no further thought on him. No time, that is until he came home at almost midnight a year and a half later to find his two and a half year old daughter alone in the house, terrified and crying. The front door had been locked but a hasty check of the back door showed it to be opened a crack. Something on the ground held it closed when Mario pushed and he ran out the front door and around back to find Kitty’s body blocking the door. Holding his little girl tight to him he quickly checked and found no pulse. She was gone. When the crime scene unit arrived they discovered, written in Kitty’s blood on the door, was the word Knife.

Mario, after the fog of the funeral and making arrangements to have family care for Jami, poured himself into work with a possessed, fanatical resolve. He kept his emotions locked up and applied himself to finding Kitty’s killer, whom he discovered had been freed on some half-assed legal technicality. Within weeks, this thug was wanted for more crimes and as fate would ordain, it was Mario who lead the group into an empty warehouse and who confronted his man. Brandishing a gun, Knife, having no comprehension of Mario’s skill and foolishly believing all cops were bad shots, was not prepared to have a full clip fired at him. Each one of Mario’s shots would have been fatal but eight together guaranteed the perpetrator a trip to the morgue on the way to his final judgment. Mario was suspended and disciplined for using excessive force, yet even the police brass had no real desire to punish him in light of Kitty’s death. Mario would have walked away from Police work then, but he was saved by his old friend and fellow Marine, John Williams, Chief of the Mayhaven police. He brought Mario and Jami to town, realizing that New York would only haunt and torment his old friend,

Mario never really got over Kitty’s death, he just tried to keep it at bay and out of his daily consciousness. Most of the time he succeeded and he devoted himself to raising his daughter and working diligently at proving his worth to the department and the community. The smaller town suited him fine, giving him something of a refuge from his memories.

Mario hadn’t realized he was woolgathering until a colleague’s voice intruded into his consciousness. Hey! Mario! Line two! someone shouted.

Mario dutifully picked up the phone and answered Detective LaCone. The voice on the other end sounded anxious and upset to Mario’s ear.

Hi, this is Hugh Richardson. I filed a report last night about some threatening calls…I just got another one and want to talk to someone!

Mario quickly responded, Yes sir, I just had a chance to read through the report you made…you say you received another call? Tonight? Could I come out to your house and talk to you, say…in fifteen minutes?

Hugh eagerly agreed and the two men confirmed the address and directions. Maple Heights Drive…nice area, thought Mario, Definitely not your high crime area. People who live in a good location expect peace and quiet. Of course, the criminals all know that, too.

Mario arrived at the Richardson house in less than fifteen minutes. He parked his car on the street and as he got out he scanned the street and the surroundings with an eye long practiced at looking for small clues. Lots of cover here… shrubbery, trees, privacy fences, Mario, smiled slightly realizing that a detective and a burglar think a lot alike. It pays to know the usual adversaries, to think like the enemy, he thought, something he had long ago mastered.

Mario was both pleased and disturbed to see Hugh Richardson furtively peek out the side light curtains before opening the door. He was glad they were being cautious, but saddened that they had obviously been scared thoroughly. Anticipating that and from long habit Mario was holding his badge, its worn leather case open, to greet Hugh’s gaze in a reassuring manor. Mario introduced himself and Hugh led him into the den, where he introduced his wife Ellen.

The daughters were upstairs but they all spoke in a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone, in case the girls tried to snoop. Mario went over the basics of the police report, to verify that every thing written was as precise as possible. In the binder he had brought along, Mario began jotting answers to a long string of questions. What had been the precise time of the calls? Was Hugh sure all three had been the same voice? Were there any background sounds, such as car horns or airplane noise? Did the caller use any odd turn of phrase or have any sort of accent or inflection? Hugh mentioned the odd tone of the caller’s voice.

Mario thought about that. If he’s changing his voice somehow…he’s probably someone you know, he said.

Hugh and Ellen were frankly amazed at the Detectives fanatically detailed questioning and how many insightful queries he shot at them one after another. Mario jotted feverishly until he at last fell quiet. He looked squarely at Hugh and asked, I know you’ve considered who might be calling or why…has anything come to mind?

Hugh shrugged. I suppose it could be related to work…I certainly haven’t had any problems with family, friends or neighbors that I can think of, he offered. If you really think it could be someone we know... he shrugged and fell silent, his mind not wanting to address the possibility.

Mario considered this. Sometimes crazy people will obsess and get hung up on the least slight or imagined injury, he said. But somewhere there is a connection…even if it is in that person’s imagination.

What can you do to help us? asked Ellen.

I’m going to check the phone companies and see if we can find these calls…you’ve given me some pretty good estimates on when they came in, but don’t get your hopes up…if he’s using a cheap prepaid cell phone it won’t tell us anything, Mario advised them.

Sort of like the terrorists use? asked Hugh.

Yeah, Mario responded, you need to view this guy as a terrorist, too. He paused and looked steadily at them. Now, I suggest that you get a recorder and hook it to your phone and don’t let your kids answer any time…at least ‘til we get to the bottom of this. Also log down precise times when the calls start and stop, Mario added. In something like this, any little background noise, an odd word…they all could be important to help us find this guy.

Hugh asked, Do you think this…guy…is just trying to scare us? Maybe torment us with worry? Or will…something else happen? he added, reluctant to hear the answer.

Mario looked at Hugh, then Ellen. I’d like to tell you that he’s only interested in calling you. I can’t do that. Honestly, we have to assume at this point that he may intend to kill you and eat you! He saw their shocked expressions. He wasn’t actually trying to scare them to death, but he had learned a long time ago people always tried to be way too positive about dangerous things. He wanted them on their toes.

Oh, one more thing…do your girls know about these calls? he asked quietly.

No, replied Ellen, we didn’t want to frighten them.

Mario sighed. I’m sorry, but you need to frighten them some. In fact, let me speak to them. Ellen glanced at Hugh, who nodded, and she rose and went upstairs to retrieve the girls. When they had arrived and were seated, Hugh introduced Mario to the girls. Mario was struck by how pretty both of the girls were. They would make tempting targets for any pervert or stalker, and if the caller was hell-bent on tormenting the father, these two would be the perfect means. Mario knew there was no way to keep them locked up and totally safe. He gave a mental sigh and began talking. The girls raptly listened as he explained about the calls and that the girls needed to do their part to help their parents, by watching and reporting any suspicious or unusual cars, people, or things, both in the neighborhood or around the house, no matter how small or silly they thought it was. Good detective work is all about seeing the little things others overlook, Mario solemnly advised them. When he asked if they had any questions, Clairine shook her head no, being somewhat shy. Heather immediately asked if he had a badge and gun like a real cop. Smiling at this, Mario obliged by presenting his badge for their inspection and patted his shoulder holster and gun tucked under his left jacket side. After the girls had bid him farewell and run upstairs, Mario leaned forward and spoke to Ellen and Hugh. Keep a really close eye on your girls…don’t let the little one play outside alone…at least until we see where this goes, Mario advised.

Do you think we’re in danger? Ellen asked, shocked. She had been hoping that Mario’s earlier comment about being killed and eaten had been a poor attempt at police humor. It suddenly was dawning on her that he was serious, deadly serious, and she felt herself tighten with apprehension.

For his part, Mario could not help experiencing that old replay of finding Kitty’s body all those years ago. The image always returned at moments like this, when a hint of danger or threats to someone triggered it. He shrugged. I don’t know, he answered as sincerely as possible, then, lowering his voice he said, "But be vigilant…and keep your doors and windows locked…especially at night. The girls would make an easy target, a great way to get at you, to make you suffer." Hugh and Ellen nodded, unable to reply.

Hugh accompanied Mario to the door and shook hands firmly. Thank you for coming…we don’t know what to think of all this…it seems silly to be scared of a couple of crank calls? he half-heartedly tried to laugh. Mario could easily see how much the couple was spooked by this. He glanced at the side light of the entry door and pointed at the sticker displayed there, Do you have a working alarm system? he asked inquisitively.

Hugh replied, Yes, but we don’t always use it.

Mario turned and scanned the dark, tree lined street, then turned back to Hugh. Trust me, sir…use it! I’ll let you know what I find out tomorrow, he spoke firmly and headed for his car.

Mario sat for a few moments, once he started the car, his left elbow resting on the open window, his fingers lightly hanging onto the top of the door, while his right hand gripped the steering wheel. He watched the streetscape, noted several teenagers moving about, enjoying the warm summer evening. The street was well lit, but Mario noted that the houses were all surrounded by an abundance of trees, shrubs and other landscaping, all of which created large pools of dark shadowing. Lots of darkness to hide in, the detective thought, considering how someone could use this for stalking the Richardson’s house. These homes were built in the early sixties, when people actually planted more than a single bush, he mused, shifting his car into drive and slowly pulling away from the curb. That makes for a nicer home, but it helps the crazy perpetrator a whole lot too.

Mario considered the Richardson’s and their current plight. They’re scared, Mario thought, sad that such a nice family should be so afflicted, but I wonder if they’re scared enough? Mario had a feeling, a hunch, that this case might be the kind he hated; difficult, frustrating and one that would end tragically. Now, if I just knew why I feel this way! he thought, annoyed, driving into the dark.

3

The one who called himself Vali smiled knowingly. He laid aside his inexpensive, prepaid cell phone. He had replaced its microphone with an electronic device that modified his voice. His small homemade device allowed him to manipulate the tonal qualities of his speech, making it unrecognizable to Hugh. Vali smiled. Hugh knew Vali in his other incarnation. This way, he could in no way identify him by his voice.

Vali was handy with electronics. He held a bachelor’s degree in Electrical Engineering, and even though it had not figured in his real career, he had made it a hobby, tinkering many hours away in his small, well equipped shop. Things like the voice gadget were always fun to design and build… and had proven quite useful too.

Vali had just completed his third call to Hugh Richardson and he was delightfully pleased at Hugh’s distraught and apprehensive demeanor. It’s so hard not to relish this, he thought. He’s coming along sooooo nicely. Just like a fillet being slowly sautéed on moderate heat. Vali, a connoisseur of fine cuisine, found the cooking metaphor simply perfect. He was genuinely pleased…his mere mentioning of Clairine and Heather’s names had pushed Hugh into uttering a stream of threatening profanity. Such uncouth and uncivil behavior, Vali pondered, I believe I’ve found his deepest fear. Yes, the girls are the obvious place to apply pressure to…shall we say, soften Hugh up. Hummmmm…Vali purred, a trait he exhibited when deeply enmeshed in thought. How should I exploit that? he wondered.

Vali was not in the least desirous of actually harming the girls, yet it would probably be necessary to inflict some small discomfort or pain on them in order to accomplish his objective. And Vali’s objective was indeed the only thing that mattered. How long had he labored now…fifteen years? Twenty years? One by one the guilty had been shown justice, had been helped to see the error of their ways and had paid for their evil and wicked actions. In full.

I am merely an instrument of divine judgment, Vali thought, my loss and grief are nothing! Once, long ago he had felt crushed, languishing in the pathetic grip of victim-hood, a small and wretched man crushed with the destruction of his life’s work, ruined by greedy and self serving fools. He had started over, in a lowly place, yet, by concealing his true feelings, he found that people flocked to him and seemed to trust him. As time passed he had grown strong. Fourteen years ago he had begun his dialogue with God. God had moved him to explore the Old Testament and he could remember so clearly when he found the passage that had changed him forever. Isaiah 48:22. There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.

He found that certain words spoke to him…moving his empty heart profoundly…they seemed to almost be italicized…glowing in the light of his desk lamp as he read late at night; divine retribution, smite the evildoers, agent of God. The words called him, wooing his empty heart, soothing the bitterness that had almost choked him and inspired him to contemplate his role in life. Flushed with renewed purpose, he sat about life with a new zeal, always shielding his plans and ardent mission from those puny, blind humans who surrounded him. Had they come forth to defend him against the lies? No they had not! Had they recoiled at the miscarriage of justice he and endured? No! Had any one come forward to work to oppose or right this wrong? No! Quite the opposite. At best they had stood by, some few of them, had actively and willingly participated in assisting those who had let greed move them to crush him…to strip away every last vestige of vocation and love, taking all valuable authority and position from him.

A lesser man would have succumbed to this tide of disappointment and collapsed into a depressed madness, a cruel and cutting darkness. Vali knew that such a fate had nearly claimed him. But not quite…by divine intervention he had been spared such a humiliating destruction. And it was with his soul’s most ardent gratitude that he had shouldered the burden set before it in the task. His task. His life. His divine mission.

I have been faithful and obedient, Vali thought, and God has blessed my enterprise with success. Indeed, no one suspected at all his hands working, laboring stealthily for years, unseen and as deadly as the grim reaper. He followed his task in precise order and the guilty were punished, 1, 2, 3…the alpha to the omega…and at last the omega was at hand. The final person who had cast his lot with the evil ones…Hugh Richardson would feel God’s own wrath.

Vali set in his darkened study at his glowing computer screen. He clicked on a file and glanced at the clock, entered a complex code to shift past the encryption barrier. Hugh Richardson, wife Ellen, address, social security numbers, education, employment, children, he had a treasure trove of data. He scrolled down to a particular line. Clairine, daughter, date of birth, April 21st, hair color, eye color, height, weight and features. Here were recorded personal identifying marks such as…inverted nipples, scars on inside of upper arm, freckle inside cleft between buttocks, right side, etc. Vali called up a mental picture of Clairine and considered her, so pretty, so shy and quiet…a gentle young woman…very studious, with a passion for reading. Vali recalled she had beautifully, unblemished skin. He frowned slightly, I shall regret having to inflict pain on her, he thought, sadly. Yet, it would be undeniably necessary. Her father was monstrously evil and how could this girl expect to escape the consequences of her association with him? Still, he recognized that what he must do might be a terrible burden to his heart. He sighed, How could I expect God’s mandate to be easy? he wondered.

Vali clicked off the file and shut down his computer. He tilted his chair back slightly and sat silently staring out the room’s darkened window into the summer night’s blackness. A faint whisper of light crept into the room…cast by a night light in the open half bath down the hall. Vali meditated, Soon the work will be done, this task I’ve labored at so long. He smiled…it felt warm and satisfying to have served God so well, so long. Hugh would soon be his and his task would be done. He thought of the others, the guilty ones and those who had been close to the guilty. All had been punished. No one but the guilty knew the truth. Some were thought to have killed themselves, some were found murdered with no hint or clue. One had apparently died of a drug overdose. Another had suffered a heart attack. Vali smiled in the dark. Fools! All had died by his actions, quietly, precisely and effectively; one by one. All had heard his final pronouncement as to their guilt. They had tossed him aside, discarded his life as if it had no value. With God’s help, he had shown them their failing. Perfect. Complete. Hugh would be the final stroke in his masterpiece.

He wondered then, at the faint twinge of distress he felt. His life had been consumed for so long with this task; he had never considered what he might do when it was complete. Then from deep within his mind the voice of God assured him, so warmly that he at once felt his initial discomfort pass. Yes, God would not abandon such a faithful servant. The voice had clearly judged his unease and whispered, I shall find a new task, one worthy of you. Vali was content. He was pleased. He was one with his God.

4

John Williams sat at his desk in the police headquarters wing of the city hall, idly stirring a cup of coffee (black, one teaspoon of sugar) with his right hand while he used his left hand to flip through a stack of paper work page by page. Items requiring action he deposited in one stack and the others went face down in a pile to his left. As city police Chief of a city of 50,000 souls he was constantly besieged by paperwork. Must be an army somewhere killing trees, he often remarked. At 59 he had been the Chief for 17 years…the city’s first black Chief and one who had the support of both the force and the local civic and political leaders.

John had no illusions and realized when the city hired him, an outsider and former state trooper who had been injured in a bad crash, that he had probably been hired more for his blackness than his credentials. John had been more cynically amused by that than anything, realizing that when he was hired, the department had had some issues with the community. No doubt the city fathers wanted to make a token gesture by hiring him and figured they could fire him when he failed.

John had had no intention of co-operating with their scheme; failure was a word that did not exist in his personal dictionary. He immediately set out to demonstrate that they had gotten more than they bargained for. After some sorely needed house cleaning and organization, the local folks were surprised and quite pleased at how much improved the department had become and complaints about the police force almost disappeared. This forced the politicians at city hall to be extremely grateful; an emotion that John shamelessly exploited for the benefit of his officers in both pay and equipment. Seeing this, the remnants of any resentment, which mostly came from him being both black, and worse, an outsider, faded away.

John credited much of his temperament and skill with people to his father who had served in the Big War as he called WWII and who had been a never ending source of calm advice when he was growing up. John had, like many young blacks his age, found the angry rhetoric of Black Power movement to be seductive. His grandfather Clayton, like his father, had sadly shaken his head when John tried his hand at espousing some of the ideas at him.

John, John, he spoke wearily, "how do you think anger and hate are going to change what other people… white people…are going to think of you or anybody else? If somebody thinks you’re no good…you can’t change that by rioting and burning things. People have to see what you really are inside…if you want respect…you have to be…you have to live like…you’re worth respecting!"

John had pondered that many times. God, I miss that old man, he sighed. Like his grandfather, who had passed on in the late seventies, John’s father had argued for reasonableness and patience. It doesn’t do you any good to demand rights and opportunity and then not bother to use either the ones you already have or the new ones you gain. This admonition had stuck with John all of his life.

When his draft notice arrived he was apprehensive but he made up his mind to go and do his best. John’s reflexes and eyesight were exceptionally good and he was selected for sniper school, having had the dubious good luck to end up in the Marines and navigating boot camp with ease.

By the time John arrived in country in lovely South Vietnam he had hit his stride. Serious and determined, his swift and soulful sense of humor and genuine interest in people had made making friends an easy process for the lanky and tall twenty year old. In spite of the sometimes bitter antipathy between blacks and whites in the military, John had refused to be turned from his easygoing, friendly ways. He found himself teamed with another nineteen year old kid from New York, an Italian, from the Bronx. Their first meeting could have gone badly, as John’s new partner had had some bad experiences with blacks in New York and he was not sure he