Jericho's Razor (8 page)

“Sorry, I'm still stuck on
peripheral
. When did cops begin using such an impressive vocabulary?”

“Pound sand, buddy.”

I opened a Newcastle, put on some Jimi Hendrix, and began the task of cleaning the mess left by the cops. While I worked, I kept thinking about a headless drug dealer, a corrupt congressman, and a killer who was using my books as homicidal inspiration. There was a connection to it all that I still was not seeing. Which meant I was going to ignore Torrez's directive.

Reporters and camera crews crowded around a platform set in the middle of what was to be the future site of the biggest company to make the area its headquarters since Caterpillar. Many members of the media had been there all week, having made the trek earlier in the week to cover the dead drug dealer in my garage. It must have been a hell of a time for them. A wrecking ball hung in the backdrop like a raised fist, ready to demolish the boys' and girls' club. It was one of the oldest and most rundown buildings in the city. Faulty wiring. Leaky roof. Rodent infested. And located in an area that was rampant with drugs and gang violence.

But with an excellent river view.

Preston stood alongside the company CEO and his father, the former governor. The trio wore big smiles under a banner that read
A NEW DAY FOR PEORIA
! Preston and the CEO answered some softball questions from the major networks, providing soundbites like ‘
major influx of jobs
.' Then the local new station started taking their shots. I recognized Jaime Dawson from Action Channel Eight and smiled. Dawson had built a reputation for hard-hitting stories that left no prisoners. Preston ignored her raised hand as long as he could, but finally gave her a nod.

“Congressman, you claim that the construction of this building will provide many new jobs for the area. But is it not true that construction will be done by a company from Chicago?”

“J&E Tax Consultants has a contract with that company. They handle the construction of all their new sites.”

“And is it also true that over eighty percent of the staff in this building will come from personnel transferring from other locations like Omaha and Saint Louis?”

The CEO stepped up for that one.

“J&E Tax Consultants is a major corporation with offices all over the Midwest. Of course, some of our most trusted and long-serving people will work in the corporate headquarters. But we are very much looking forward to tapping into the deep well of talent that this area has to offer. It is, in fact, one of the main reasons we chose Peoria to build our corporate offices.”

“So it wasn't the fact that you are getting several acres of riverfront property for seven cents on the dollar?”

The governor stepped in to save his progeny and dismissed the masses with a practiced air of superiority. I made my way through the throng to find Jaime Dawson talking into her cell phone. She hung up and gave me smile.

“Jericho Sands. Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

“Because you've been a reporter too long to be surprised by anything.”

“Uh-huh. Let the guys in the three-thousand-dollar suits handle the bullshit. They're better at it.”

“Such as? What kind of bullshit?”

Dawson slid a finger across the screen of her tablet and pulled up a file. She looked around to make sure that we were not being overheard and then tilted the tablet so I could see the screen.

“I did some research on the crime stats for the past six months. The arrest records have a name that repeats rather extensively.”

“Let me guess. Sean Booker?”

“Right you are. Booker was arrested four times. But he was always released, even when found with what could be considered a substantial amount of contraband on him.”

“He had somebody looking out for him.”

“Exactly.”

I glanced back at the podium. Who had that kind of power? Who had that kind of motivation?

“By the way, Preston just purchased a brand-new Mercedes from a dealership in Oak Park. List price is over one hundred thousand dollars.”

I whistled.

“Using kickback money to buy a new ride? Hard to believe Preston would be that dumb.”

“Dumb? No. Arrogant? Yes. Besides, the family isn't exactly broke. It wouldn't seem too unusual, unless you looked at the whole picture.”

I thought about what she was telling me. “So Preston works with Booker to increase the flow of drugs through the area. The cops arrest him, but Preston has his back and makes sure he walks. The property value plummets and the tax guys get primo riverfront real estate for their corporate headquarters. Preston gets a nice little kickback—”

“And Booker gets his head hacked off,” Jaime finished.

“You think Booker's murder ties into this?”

“It sure seems awfully convenient.”

“True. But if they were going to shut him up, there are much quieter ways to pull it off. Put a bullet in him and dump him in the river. Just as effective and draws way less attention.”

“Maybe. But by leaving the body right next to your car, they also get to screw with you. Is there anyone up on that podium right now with enough motivation to do that?”

I thought of Preston pulling the gun in his office. He was scared of something or, more accurately, someone. Someone from whom his money and family connections could not keep him shielded.

She read a text on her phone.

“I'll email you a copy of the files. I'd be curious to see what that mind of yours can make of it. Maybe you'll see something I'm missing. In the meantime, I have to go. My boss says something big is breaking.”

“What?”

“No idea. Just told me to get back to the studio, pronto.”

Griffin and his team had been replaced by “trauma eradication professionals.” They were black-clad figures armed with pressure washers, scrub brushes, and twenty-gallon drums of industrial cleaner. Sections of the concrete floor and walls had a scrubbed, antiseptic look to them. Several cans of gray industrial primer were piled in a corner by rollers and folded drop cloths. They seemed like a good crew who knew what they were doing. But I knew that the stains would never erase completely. One way or another, blood always left its mark.

But at least they had washed my truck.

I spent two hours familiarizing myself with Sean Booker's last eight months with a head. Jaime was right about the pattern. On four occasions, Booker had been arrested in the area now being demolished for corporate headquarters. On all occasions, he was released. One of the arresting officers left a memo in the file protesting the action. The officer had pulled Booker over for a traffic stop and found illegal weapons and drugs in his car. Booker spent all of three hours in a holding cell before being released.

The arresting officer's name was Jason Rourke.

Rourke noted that Booker was a repeat offender who was caught red-handed on a legal traffic stop. He went on to mention that Booker was exceptionally arrogant during the ordeal, saying several times that he would be out before morning and that Officer Rourke was “making a big mistake.” By Jason Rourke's estimation, allowing Booker to walk out the front door was the mistake.

Previous to the incident, Rourke had been on the fast track. He received glowing performance reviews and was scheduled to take the sergeant's exam. But his decision to light up Booker's Cadillac and haul him in cut his career off at the knees. Two days later, he was informed that his appointment for the sergeant's exam was canceled due to an unacceptable number of citizen complaints. His next performance review made him out to seem unreliable and incompetent. Sean Booker, meanwhile, never saw the inside of a patrol car again, let alone a courtroom. The area surrounding the boys' and girls' club, already among the worst in the county, became a demilitarized zone. Officers refused to answer calls, which was fine because dispatchers seemed to have cut it out of their map. It was prime for the taking, ready for a multinational corporation with deep pockets and deeper connections to come in and usurp, for pennies on the dollar.

Torrez had called Sean Booker a lowlife. That was being generous. Booker was a predator, a virus who sold drugs and guns to kids. He had acted with impunity, knowing he was protected, and worked hard to ruin his own community. Booker was born and raised in the section of town he had been contracted to cripple, but had done it swiftly and thoroughly. Exactly the type of degenerate my father Peter would have loved to exterminate. He would have seen the act as a moral and social obligation, like the beheading of a poisonous serpent. I thought about seeing Booker's face on the video message, his eyes wild with fear and panic as he realized what was coming. Once the buzzing metal teeth found purchase in his neck, death would have come quick. But those few seconds would surely stretch out like hours.

Even after witnessing the aftermath firsthand, I found it difficult to find sympathy. And hated myself for it. The devil's firstborn son, finding common ground. I could hear my father's voice echoing off the walls, preaching, condemning Booker to an eternal pit of fire, praising the one who had taken arms against him and done God's will.

“Screw you, you crazy fucker,” I muttered, silencing my father's voice. Nobody
deserved
that. Booker belonged in prison, not painted over the walls of my building. Eliminating one monster was not just if you merely replaced him with a worse one.

My phone rang. The caller ID showed the number for Jaime Dawson from the news station. I remembered she had received a text from her boss telling her that something big was breaking.

“Jericho, I want to give you a heads-up. Are you watching your TV?” Her voice was a whisper.

“No.”

“Well, turn it on. Now!”

I turned on the television and was greeted by a commercial for air freshener. The product claimed to be able to eradicate any odor, no matter how foul, or your money back.
Bullshit
, I thought. Nothing could get rid of the stench I smelled last night. Or the one that still lingered downstairs. ‘Eradicate'
that
smell, and I would gladly shell out $9.95. To hell with your socks and your pet odor.

Jaime called back. “Is your TV on?”

“It's on. I can barely hear you. Are calling from a tunnel?”

“Close. I'm in the ladies' room. My boss would murder me if he knew I was calling you, but you've been straight up with me in the past. And you have a right to know.”

“Know what? What's going on?”

“We're about to break a huge story. We …” I heard her speak to someone. It sounded like she said she'd be out in a minute.

“I have to go. Just watch. I'll call you later for a comment.”

She hung up.

The air freshener commercial gave way to one featuring a drug that claimed to treat depression. The disclaimer warned about possible side effects in the rapid speech of an auctioneer. Many of the potential side effects were worse than the symptoms you would take the drug for, including internal bleeding, paranoia, and thoughts of suicide. I never understood how they determined if it was the drug that made the user consider suicide or the actual depression. Maybe that was why drug companies made so much money.