Web of Justice (6 page)

Hank took a seat, dropped the flash drive onto Callaway’s desk, and slid it over. “Got a minute to take a look at this?”

Callaway reached for the drive and picked it up. “Sure, Hank. What is it?”

“It’s a video of everyone visiting a restaurant called Phil’s Burgers & Booze. I need you to isolate facial shots of everyone leaving the building and print them out.”

“No problem, Hank,” Callaway said. He leaned down, pushed the drive into a slot on the computer tower, and leaned forward at his monitor. “Shouldn’t take too long. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Thanks, Callaway,” Hank said. He went back to his desk, dropped into his chair, and leaned back. A vague feeling had been niggling at him for the last couple of hours. There was something about the facts of this case that rang a faint bell somewhere in the back of his head, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Was it because the dead woman had been found in a park? That wasn’t so unusual. He leaned forward at his keyboard and did a database search for any crimes that had taken place in and around a park in the city. There were lots of them, and several were homicide related.

But he felt he was on the wrong track. He did another search using the keyword “hair.” There were pages of results, so he narrowed the search down to “shaved hair” and the results were more manageable. He waded through the references, then somewhere on the second screenful of listings, his eyes widened and he leaned in. He might’ve found what had been bugging him all day.

He clicked through to the electronic report and squinted at the screen. It detailed an unsolved case from several years ago—nine, to be exact. He had a fuzzy recollection of the events, and that was what had been bothering him. He ran his eyes down the screen and refreshed his memory of what had taken place.

A woman named Debra Wilde had been discovered early one morning, murdered in her bed by an unknown assailant, choked to death by a belt fastened securely around her throat. But the real kicker was, the hair on her head had been completely shaved off.

The killer had never been identified. The woman’s son, Isaiah Wilde, had been the prime suspect, but a solid case against him couldn’t be made. Isaiah, who went by the name of Izzy, had been fifteen years old at the time.

Izzy had an older brother named Carter, who had been eighteen when the murder was committed. However, he had been dismissed as a suspect early on. He hadn’t been home at the time of the murder, confirmed to have been staying at a friend’s house overnight.

Hank tapped a key and separate photos of the victim and the brothers appeared on his screen, taken at the time of the occurrence.

He dug a little deeper into the known facts of the case. According to the police report, Izzy had heard a disturbance in the night, gone to his mother’s room, and discovered her body. Her head had been shaved, and though hairs from the woman had been found on Izzy’s clothing, he claimed they’d gotten there when he had tried to revive her.

Izzy’s parents had been separated, and her former husband was not a suspect. He had remarried and moved to Alberta, and he’d been proven to be home at the time of the murder.

There were many other smaller details, the investigation having taken place over a period of months. But the case had never been solved, and no other viable suspects had been found.

Hank sat back again, rubbed his chin, and stared at the monitor. Though not entirely unheard of, shaving the victim’s head was not a common occurrence in murder cases. That was why it had stuck in the back of his mind.

The physical evidence for this case would’ve been stored away long ago, and he’d wanted to see what it consisted of. And he might need to talk with the detective who’d been in charge of the original investigation.

He glanced up as Detective King came through the precinct doors, crossed the floor, and headed down a hallway at the back of the room. King was likely headed for the break room, one of his favorite spots.

A voice sounded behind him. “Hank.” It was Callaway calling.

Hank spun around. The young cop was waving a stack of papers. Hank rolled his chair over and took the printouts.

“I got some pretty clear shots,” Callaway said, motioning toward the stack. “Some are a little fuzzy, but I think you can get a pretty good idea.”

“Thanks, Callaway,” Hank said. He wheeled back, dropped the papers onto his desk, and thumbed through them.

Most of the images were of men. There was an occasional woman, generally in the company of a male companion. Others had exited the establishment in groups of two or three.

Hank stopped, leaned in, and smiled grimly. He’d be several years older now, but the face in front of Hank’s eyes sure looked like the same attractive face, with high cheekbones and dark, deep-set eyes, that stared at him from his monitor.

The face of Izzy Wilde.

And the timestamp on the printout showed him leaving Phil’s just before nine o’clock the previous evening—a few minutes before Olivia Bragg had left.

Hank continued to leaf through the papers. At timestamp 9:07 p.m., an image of Olivia’s face had been captured as she’d exited the building.

Was it a coincidence? Hank didn’t think so. In fact, he knew a judge wouldn’t think so either, and it would be enough to get a search warrant for Izzy Wilde’s place of residence.

Hank turned back to the computer and found Wilde’s address. According to his driver’s license, he still resided in the same house on the northern outskirts of the city where he’d lived all his life—the house where his mother had been found murdered.

King approached Hank’s desk, slouched back in the guest chair, and dropped a sneakered shoe on the corner of the desk. He sipped at a coffee and looked at Hank.

Hank frowned at the foot and then looked at King. “We might have our killer,” he said.

King’s eyes widened. “Already?”

Hank swiveled the monitor so King could see the photos, held up the printout, and explained what he had discovered. “It’s too much of a coincidence that Wilde would be at the same restaurant at that time, especially given the circumstances of his mother’s murder.”

King whistled. “It’s the shaved head that tells the real story. If we can get him for this killing, it might lead to getting him for the murder of his mother.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Hank said. “It’s always nice to clean up a cold case.”

“Should we pick him up and see what he has to say?”

“We don’t have enough for an arrest. It’s all circumstantial evidence. But it’s enough to bring this guy in for an interview. And I’m sure we can get a search warrant for the house and property.”

King grinned, slipped his foot off the desk, and stood, heading away. “Let me know when you get the warrant, Hank. I’ll be in the break room.”

Hank rolled his eyes and slipped open a drawer, then turned his head and called, “King.”

King turned back.

“Did you talk to the woman who found the body?”

King shrugged. “Talked to her. Didn’t get anything other than what was already in her statement.”

“What about the dog? Did you find the owner?”

“Nope. She said the dog ran off right after she called 9-1-1.”

Hank nodded and turned back to his desk. He filled out the paperwork for the warrant, slipped it into his briefcase, and headed off to find a judge.

Chapter 10

Tuesday, 3:17 p.m.

HANK FOLLOWED close behind as half a dozen cruisers streamed up Whistler Road, their lights flashing, their sirens off.

It was uncertain whether or not Izzy Wilde would be home. The front office of Richmond Printing, where Wilde worked as a warehouse assistant, confirmed he hadn’t clocked in that morning. Apparently, it was nothing unusual, and the talkative receptionist had informed Hank that Wilde was on the short list to be replaced.

Hank considered the evidence against Izzy Wilde. It was all circumstantial, but his gut told him it was more than that. He didn’t want to take any chances and allow the suspect to get away.

The vehicles drove silently up the long gravel lane leading to the century-old house. A rusty pickup sat on the grass in front of the building, a couple of other cars nearby, one up on blocks. Grass had grown up around the tires. Hank would leave them until last; they hadn’t been moved recently.

He pulled his car up by the side of the house and he and King stepped out. Officers poured from their vehicles and surrounded the building, their weapons drawn. They would guard against any attempt Wilde might make to escape should he be inside.

Hank glanced around the property. The lane came to a stop at an old garage, fifty feet past the house. Once covered with light blue paint, the exterior was now chipped and faded. He motioned toward the building and a pair of cops sprang into action. They would check for a vehicle inside and secure the garage.

A hundred feet off to the left, an ancient shed stood alone, nestled in among a group of young trees. Tire tracks had worn a rutted path across the lawn in the direction of the building. Hank motioned toward the shed, directing a pair of officers to secure it. He’d give it a thorough search later.

He and King approached the door of the house and Hank knocked. “RHPD. Open the door.” He stood back and waited a moment.

A second knock went unanswered, and King touched Hank’s shoulder. “Stand back, Hank. I’ll break it down.”

Hank chuckled. “Good luck with that, King. That door’s stronger than you are.” He beckoned to an officer. The cop removed a battering ram from the trunk of his cruiser, and in a moment, the frame shattered, the latch snapped loose, and the door swung inward.

Hank led the way into the building, King directly behind him, four officers following. A few minutes later, the officers had cleared the house and returned to the foyer.

“No one here, Hank.”

Hank nodded grimly, then turned to King and pointed toward a wooden staircase leading to the second floor. “We need to look for any evidence Olivia Bragg might’ve been held here. Check the bedrooms.”

As King headed upstairs, Hank found the doorway to the basement leading off from the kitchen. He opened the door, fumbled inside for a light switch, and flicked it on. A faint glow at the bottom of the steps lit up the aged wooden stairs.

Hank drew his weapon and proceeded with caution down the steps. The basement was divided into two rooms, and after glancing around the dusty space, he crossed the pitted floor and pushed open a door that led to another area.

He flicked on his Maglite and stepped inside the dark room. The space appeared to be used for storage—junk, really. Sagging lamps, broken chairs, and piles of castoffs lay on makeshift shelving or heaped on the floor.

He went back to the main room and peeked, prodded, and poked into boxes and cupboards, soon coming to the conclusion that if Izzy Wilde was the killer, he wasn’t using the basement for his deadly activities.

He returned to the main floor, where King was digging through the kitchen cupboards.

“Find anything, King?”

King slammed a cupboard door and turned around. He shook his head, leaned against the counter, and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Nothing. There’re four bedrooms upstairs, and one of them appears to be in use. Looks like Wilde’s. The rest are half-empty and filled with dust. Couldn’t find anything in Wilde’s drawers or closet that ties him to the murder.”

“Nothing in the basement, either,” Hank said. “We’ll check the rest of the buildings.”

They stepped outside and crossed the driveway, and Hank motioned toward the shed. A cop stood near the front door of the windowless building. The other one was undoubtedly at the back making sure it was secure.

“We’ll search there first,” Hank said. He crouched down and pointed at tire tracks that had furrowed their way through the grass. “There’s been a vehicle through here. Recently.”

A gunshot sounded and Hank jerked his head up. The officer at the front of the shed hit the ground, and the door of the building burst open. A masked figure ran out, heading across an open field toward a forested area some ways off.

King leaped into action, drawing his weapon as he raced toward the shooter. The other cop appeared from behind the building and joined the chase, his weapon out and ready.

Running to the fallen cop, Hank came to a stop and crouched down. The officer had been hit point blank in the chest. His vest had saved his life, but he was going to be in a lot of pain for some time.

The cop opened his eyes, groaned, and blinked a few times. “I’m okay.”

“Can you breathe?” Hank asked.

The cop gave a weak nod.

Hank slipped out his phone and made a call. “Ambulance is on its way,” he said. “Don’t try to move. You’re gonna be all right.”

The officer turned his eyes toward the building. “He shot me right through a hole.”

Hank looked at the swinging door. The bullet had chipped away fresh splinters as it made its way through a knothole, chest high. The cop had never seen it coming.

He glanced toward the chase. King was gaining some ground, but it wouldn’t be enough. The shooter had a long head start, and it appeared he was going to make it to the trees in safety.

Then the fugitive stopped and spun around, aimed his weapon toward his pursuers, and took a shot. King hit the ground, rolled, and was up a moment later. The shooter had missed, and King continued on, the other cop lagging behind. Hank knew his partner would persevere until he was convinced the chase was futile.

Later, Hank would organize a manhunt, but he didn’t expect it to be productive. If they had a helicopter, they would stand a better chance, but he didn’t see that in the near future. The department was always strapped for cash, and by the time they could scrounge one up from Toronto, it would be nothing more than a waste of time.

He stood and turned his attention to the shed. He stepped inside and flashed his light around, spying a switch inside the door. He flicked it on, flooded the building with light, and Hank’s mouth dropped open.