"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 38

Monday, November 29th, 9:15 p.m.

            Walking carefully in the dark, Det. Mike Cavanaugh made his way along the back wall of the Service Department wing of Wilkins Ford-Nissan. After passing four roll-up doors, he came to the entry door at the far corner of the building. He looked down at the door knob and thought, OK, Pepe, I hope you held up your end of the bargain. He gently turned the knob and pulled. The unlocked door swung open. He paused and listened for an alarm. He heard nothing. Then he stepped through the doorway and turned to look at the small security system panel on the wall by the door. It was in the “unarmed” mode. Good job, Pepe, Mike thought as he smiled. I owe you another C-note.

            The cop reached back and pulled the door closed, but to minimize any noise made by the latch mechanism, he left the door cracked open about an inch. Then he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and used its narrow beam of light to make his way to the Service Manager’s area. He walked slowly, careful not to bang into the many toolboxes, vehicles, work benches, and other assorted obstacles in the large, dark room.

            When he got to Duane Waller’s work area, he sifted through file folders and other papers on a shelf. Then he began to pull on the drawers of a desk and file cabinets. About half the drawers were locked. The other half contained nothing very interesting. He was hoping to find the mystery dealer license plate or some other incriminating evidence. The last drawer Det. Cavanaugh tried was the at the bottom of a four-drawer file cabinet. He quietly slid the drawer open and peered inside. On top of a small pile of papers sat a silver pistol with a silencer attached.

            “Whoa,” Mike said. Then he glanced around nervously when he realized he had spoken the word out loud rather than just thinking it. Oops, he thought, keep quiet, pal. He reached into his back pocket and grabbed his handkerchief. He gently picked up the weapon with the rag, making sure he did not leave any fingerprints. He focused the flashlight beam on the gun. Looks like a .380, he thought. And with a silencer, no less. Hmm, if I remember correctly, the guy killed in the condo parking lot was shot with a .380. Well, Mr. Waller, I think you’re not only a murderer, you’re pretty damn careless to leave this thing laying around. 

            Mike thought for a moment. Should he take the pistol as evidence and let the forensics lab determine if it was indeed the weapon used in the parking lot murder? No, he couldn’t do that. He didn’t have a search warrant—in fact, he broke the law to find the gun in the first place. But if he put it back in the file cabinet, Waller might dispose of it first thing in the morning. This might be the only concrete piece of evidence we’ll ever find, he thought. Damn! I only have one option. I can’t take it with me. He placed the pistol back where he found it and closed the cabinet drawer. I’ll just have to get a search warrant as fast as possible and hope Waller leaves it here for a while, he thought.

            He carefully began to walk back toward the entry door. As he walked, he thought to himself, How in the world am I going to get a search warrant without Capt. Bradford knowing about it? Oh man, he’ll go ballistic.

            Mike was lost in thought, pondering his next move. When he was about halfway across the open work area, he was startled by a loud shout: “Freeze!! Hand’s up! Now!!”

            The voice came from no more than ten feet behind him. Mike’s heart raced a mile a minute at the shock of the loud sound. The beam of a bright flashlight came on. Mike could see his silhouette projected on the far wall as the flashlight shone directly onto his back. He raised his hands, and thinking it was a security guard, he said, “Hey look, I’m a cop, OK? Can I show you my badge?”

            “I already know you’re a cop,” Capt. Bradford said. “Turn around, Cavanaugh. Slowly.”

            Now Mike recognized the voice. “Captain?” he said as he turned.

            “Yup,” came the terse reply. Mike breathed a partial sigh of relief and lowered his arms. “Keep ‘em up!!” Bradford shouted. Through the glare of the flashlight, which Bradford held in his left hand, Mike saw that the police captain’s right hand aimed a pistol directly at him.

            “Captain, it’s me,” Mike said. “You can, uh, you can put your weapon away.”

            Bradford ignored the suggestion. He waved his pistol in Mike’s direction and said, “Your weapon, un-holster it—slowly. Take it out with two fingers, and let me see it.”

            Mike did as he was instructed, but his mind raced in confusion. Why is my boss treating me like a perp? he thought.

            “OK, place the gun on the floor,” Bradford said. Mike gently lowered his department-issued weapon, a .40 caliber Glock, onto the floor. It was the exact same make and model of firearm held by Capt. Bradford, the one pointed directly at the center of Mike’s chest.

            “Now, kick it away,” Bradford ordered. Mike shuffled his foot at the gun, and it moved about two feet to the side.

            “I said KICK IT!!” Bradford screamed. Startled, Mike obeyed by stepping with his right foot, and then snapping the lower part of his left leg at the gun. The soccer-style kick caused the pistol to skid across the oily concrete floor into the darkness. It clanged against something metallic, possibly a tool box or a work bench, about twenty feet away.

            “Captain, I don’t understand,” Mike said.

            “Damn right you don’t understand,” Bradford growled. “You coulda been a good cop, Cavanaugh, but you just wouldn’t follow orders.”

            “Yes, I know that, Captain,” Mike said, “But I also know who’s been doing the shootings!”

            “You don’t know crap!” Bradford yelled. “What? You think the Service Manager’s doing it? Why? Just because you found a pistol in his file cabinet? You idiot, Cavanaugh. I put it there!”

            “You, you what?”

            “That’s right,” Bradford said with a cocky lilt in his voice. “I might as well tell you, since you’re not gonna live to see tomorrow and tell anyone else.”

            A wave of adrenaline and panic surged through Mike’s body. “Wha— I don’t…” He was unable to form a complete sentence. His hands remained in the air above his shoulders and began to shake. Bradford’s pistol continued to point directly at him.

            “You see, Cavanaugh, I’ve been doing it. Me and a few of my friends. We’ve been ridding the streets of a bunch of low-life punks. We’ve been doing the town a big favor. But you—you wouldn’t follow orders. You had to keep pushing it. So now our little ‘public service program’ is ruined. But at least we’re not gonna take the fall—you are!”

            “Wha— ” Mike said.

            “Yup, I can see the headlines now,” Bradford laughed. “‘Rouge cop masterminds vigilante murders.’ Your fingerprints are gonna be all over that .380 in a little while. And I just happened to be driving by when I noticed a break-in. And what a surprise, I found you in here. Then you pulled your gun on me, but I was a little quicker and killed you defending myself. And then we discovered that you and the Jesus-freak kid were doing all these murders. What a story.”

            Mike could barely breathe. He felt light-headed. His lips began to tremble, and he mumbled, “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus…”

            “You know something, Cavanaugh, you’re gonna be famous after tonight.” Bradford said. “Or should I say, infamous. Too bad you won’t be around to see it. But you can take comfort in knowing that a lot of people will secretly admire you for what you did. To a lot of people, you’re gonna be a hero.”

            Bradford took a deep breath and pursed his lips. “So long, jerk,” he muttered. He raised the pistol to arm’s length, pointing it directly at Mike. His thumb pulled the gun’s hammer back until it cocked in the ready position.

            Mike continued to mumble, “Oh Jesus, oh please, help…”

            A flash illuminated the dark room for an instant, and a simultaneous explosion roared and reverberated off the metal walls and ceiling. The stricken police officer grunted, his eyes bulged wide open in surprise. He clasped both hands to his chest and dropped to his knees. Blood seeped from between his fingers. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell forward onto the concrete floor. Moments later it was official: for the first time in over 80 years, a law enforcement officer in the town of West Hartford had been gunned down while on duty.

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