Goddess of Justice Read online

  Goddess of Justice

  Dwayne Clayden

  Contents

  Also by Dwayne Clayden

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  To The Reader

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2021 Dwayne E. Clayden

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention Permissions Coordinator,” at:

  [email protected]

  DwayneClayden.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Published in Canada by Bad Alibi Press

  Printed and Bound in Canada

  Cover Graphic by Travis Miles, Pro Book Covers

  Editing by Taija Morgan

  Proofing by Jonas Saul

  Formatting by Dwayne Clayden

  Goddess of Justice/ Dwayne Clayden—1st print ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-989912-04-1 (pbk), 978-1-989912-05-8 (e-book)

  Created with Vellum

  Valerie West

  My continual support through the craziness

  of living with an author.

  Here we are, at six novels!

  Also by Dwayne Clayden

  The Brad Coulter Thrillers

  Crisis Point

  Outlaw MC

  Wolfman is Back

  13 Days of Terror

  Goddess of Justice

  The Brad Coulter Thrillers Continue in 2022

  Bonded Labor

  The Speargrass Thriller Series

  Speargrass Opioid

  Speargrass Vengeance (Fall 2021)

  Short Story

  Hell Hath No Fury

  AB Negative. An Anthology of Alberta Crime

  Chapter One

  November 22, 1980

  A streetlight flickered, illuminating the road for a moment, then plunging it into darkness. The drug dealer, in his early twenties, leaned against one of the broken streetlights. His cigarette glowed intermittently, giving away his location. Cigarette in his mouth, he rubbed his hands together, then wrapped his arms around his thin body. Dealing on a cold November Saturday night required dedication, or maybe, desperation. He had a product to sell and junkies willing to venture out to get their fix. He stomped his feet, shivered, and took a long drag. The smoke, mingled with his breath, formed a cloud in front of him on his exhale.

  Dice watched from the shadows of the crack houses across the street. Once an affluent area of Calgary, Alberta, Victoria Park had become the armpit of the city. House after house, block upon block of crack dens. Dice had to admire the dealer’s choice of location. He’d have steady business until well into the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately for him, tonight would be his last night in business.

  Sirens, wailing from several directions, broke the silence. A police cruiser raced past, then another. Seconds later, an ambulance passed, followed by another cruiser. The emergency vehicles stopped outside a house a couple of blocks past the dealer. When he’d heard the sirens, he’d slipped back into the shadows. But not so far that Dice couldn’t see him.

  Unfazed by the police presence, the dealer moved from the shadows. As crackheads popped out of the houses to see who’d overdosed this time, the dealer made further sales. Such was the life cycle in Vic Park.

  An hour from now, the scene would be repeated with another overdose, a fight over drugs, or a domestic assaults, and knifings were common.

  Dice waited in the shadows until the ambulance sped away. A few minutes later, the cops came out of the house with three men in handcuffs. The cruisers left, and the addicts headed back to their homes.

  This was the time to act. The streets would be quiet for at least half an hour.

  Sliding his beanie low, jacket collar up, Dice staggered toward the dealer, who was working on another cigarette, making him easy to find—just follow the glow.

  The dealer heard the footsteps and pushed away from the streetlamp.

  “You got guts. The cops were just here.”

  Dice nodded, pretended to trip on the curb, and lurched toward the laughing dealer.

  “Seems you’ve got a head start. Whatever you need, if I don’t have it, I’ll get it. Name your poison.”

  Dice whispered, “Crack.”

  “Jeez, you’ll have to talk louder than that.”

  Dice staggered toward the dealer and stumbled again. Before Dice hit the street, the dealer reached out a stabilizing hand.

  “Maybe you don’t need nothin’ right now.”

  Dice’s hand came up holding a hunting knife. The long blade thrust upward, just under the sternum, pointed toward the dealer’s left shoulder.

  The blade pierced the dealer’s heart. With one hand on the knife, Dice shoved the dealer back against the pole, twisted the knife, then let his body slide to the sidewalk.

  The dealer grabbed his chest with his right hand, blood spewing between his fingers. Eyes wide, he mouthed, Why? His eyes stared past Dice as life spurted out of his body.

  Dice wiped the knife on the dealer’s hoodie, slid it back into a sheath, and headed north toward downtown.

  Chapter Two

&nbs
p; Detective Brad Coulter sat at the back of a classroom in the hotel conference center. He stretched his lean six-foot-one body out, legs well under the table, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. He wondered why these places put up fancy chandeliers, yet the sliding walls were a dull gray cloth. Sure, it was practical, they could make the rooms bigger or smaller, but who cared about the lighting. He was in the sixth row of tables. He always sat at the back. Each table had a crisp white tablecloth, a jug of water and, best of all, a bowl of Jolly Ranchers. Twenty-three other detectives were in the class.

  Today was the second day of the Crime Scene Management Course. It was further punishment from Brad’s boss, Deputy Chief Archer. In October, Brad returned to work after a two-and-a-half-month leave following the murder of his fiancée and their unborn child. He was immediately immersed in a series of sniper shootings that shocked the city of Calgary. Deputy Chief Archer discovered Brad had returned to work under false pretenses, and he was suspended. When the snipers said they would only communicate with Brad, he was brought back in, and later that day, they tracked the snipers. One was now dead, the other awaiting trial.

  Before Deputy Chief Archer could terminate Brad for falsifying a return-to-work letter, Mayor Roger Kearse recognized Brad and his team as heroes. Mayor Kearse had been adamant Brad remain a cop and keep his position in Homicide. First, Archer and Coulter agreed on a one-month unpaid leave where Brad would assist Crown Prosecutor Jenni Blighe with the case against the surviving killer, Logan Hirsch. It kept Brad out of the public eye, away from cops who felt Coulter had crossed a line, and it allowed him to use his law degree after passing the bar exams earlier this year. Brad also used the time to take his dog, Lobo, for daily runs, keeping in great shape.

  The second part of Archer’s plan was to keep Brad busy taking courses and, therefore, unavailable to respond to homicides and not on the roster. Last week, he’d attended classes on Multi-Culturalism and Media Relations.

  This week it was Crime Scene Management, the new course name the identification bureau geeks adopted to make themselves feel important. At least after today, he’d get a three-day break. The instructor was his good friend and academy classmate, Sergeant Bill Sturgeon. He’d heard Sturgeon’s rant many times over beer. He even looked the part of a professor. Stocky build, thick salt-and-pepper—more salt—hair combed back, a bushy mustache and a herringbone blazer. Gray eyes roamed the classroom. The only things missing were leather patches on his elbows and a pipe. Although, having his friend as an instructor wasn’t enough to keep Brad awake.

  “Crime Scene Management is changing. We cannot have the first officers on scene and detectives wandering around contaminating the area. The Crime Scene Unit needs to be the first at the scene to video, take photos and identify evidence before your size-twelve boots grind everything into the carpet or ground. Before your donut-sticky fingers touch everything.”

  “That’s hurtful,” a detective said.

  “Truth hurts,” another replied.

  Sturgeon waited for the laughter to subside.

  Brad’s head bobbled, then his chin returned to his chest.

  He woke out of his snooze when he heard his name.

  “Those are the essential points of Crime Scene Management. Coulter?”

  Brad’s head popped up, his brown eyes frantically trying to focus. He sat upright and rubbed a hand through his shaggy brown hair.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you remind the class what any three of the essential points we just discussed were?”

  Brad shook his head, hoping to clear his brain and dig up three points. He couldn’t. “You’ve covered them so well, it would be pointless for me to take up your valuable time repeating them.”

  Sturgeon headed toward the back row, narrowed eyes on Brad. He repeated the steps as he counted them off on his hand. “First, preserve the crime scene. Second, keep pertinent evidence uncontaminated. And third, scene and evidence protection at a crime scene begins with the first arriving officer.” Sturgeon surveyed the class. “It’s apparent we need to take a break.”

  Chairs scuffed the floor as cops headed out of the classroom to smoke, grab a coffee, or both.

  Sturgeon strode over to Brad. “Thanks a lot, buddy. I appreciate the support.”

  Brad poured two coffees and handed one to Sturgeon. “I’ve heard this before.”

  “I know, but backing me up wouldn’t hurt, would it?” Sturgeon took the coffee. “This would be better with Scotch.”

  They wandered back to Brad’s table and sat. “I’ll buy you a beer when we’re done today.”

  Sturgeon snorted. “How about I just take the cash?”

  “Beer, or nothing.” Brad popped a Jolly Rancher into his mouth.

  “Beer it is.” Sturgeon eyed Brad down and back up. “I miss a memo about appropriate detective clothing?”

  Brad glanced down. “What?”

  “Black button-down shirt, jeans, and what are those? Cowboy boots?”

  “I’ll have you know the shirt and jeans are Harry Rosen.”

  “Does he know you have them?”

  Brad ignored the comment. “They’re Italian and the boots are Roper lace-ups. Cowboy boots are stupid to wear if you get in a foot chase.”

  “Yeah, I don’t worry about foot chases.” Sturgeon sipped his coffee. “I’m a bit worried about your masculinity, though.”

  “Asshat,” Brad mumbled.

  Sturgeon leaned close, his voice a whisper. “I had an interesting call Saturday night.”

  “Do tell.” Brad’s eyebrows arched.

  “A drug dealer stabbed in Vic Park.”

  Brad’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. “That doesn’t sound exciting. In Homicide, we call that a regular Saturday night.”

  “Sometimes a Sunday, occasionally a Wednesday, and often a Thursday,” Sturgeon added.

  “What’s special about a dealer getting stabbed for his drugs?” The Jolly Rancher clicked on Brad’s teeth.

  “That’s the interesting part—he wasn’t robbed. He still had his cash and drugs.”

  Brad shrugged. “The killer got spooked. Any cruisers in the area?”

  “A few minutes before, the downtown guys responded with EMS for an overdose. They hauled three crackheads away.”

  “You’re losing me.” Brad grabbed another Jolly Rancher and popped it in his mouth.

  “The dealer was stabbed once.”

  “Lucky for the killer, unlucky for the dealer.” Brad worked the Jolly Rancher free from his straight, white teeth with a finger and leaned back in his chair.

  “Not lucky.” Sturgeon pointed to his lower chest, then left shoulder. “The knife entered under the sternum up toward the left shoulder.”

  Brad’s chair rocked back to the floor. “Right through the heart.”

  Sturgeon rolled his gray eyes. “Finally, I got your attention.”

  “That’s not a common street method of murder. Too clean, too precise.”

  “Exactly. Special training.”

  Brad swallowed the Jolly Rancher. “Armed forces?”

  Sturgeon sat back and sipped his coffee. “That’d be my first guess.”

  “But why?”

  “Not my job.” Sturgeon smirked. “I collect evidence. You do the detectiving.”

  “There was a similar murder earlier this year.” When Brad returned to work in October, Griffin had given him two homicide cases where the investigation stalled. One was of a drug dealer in Victoria Park who was stabbed under the ribcage and up into his heart. Brad didn’t get to investigate it before the snipers struck. Now it appeared the murders of the two drug dealers may be linked.

  “Yup. Not as clean as this one. Some hesitation stabs, then the fatal blow.”

  Brad nodded. “Send me the case file.”

  Chapter Three

  The next morning Brad parked his black Firebird in the association parking lot, grabbed his coffee, let Lobo out, then crossed the street and headed down the alley to p
olice headquarters. He nodded to the desk sergeant on their way to the stairs. On the second floor, they passed the tribute to fallen members. Brad stopped, as he did every time he passed here, and remembered two close friends who had died in the line of duty—his partner Curtis Young, and his friend, Tina Davidson. Young, killed by bank robbers on a highway outside the city. Davidson, kidnapped, tortured and murdered by Jeter Wolfe, the same monster who had taken his fiancée from him. Lobo barked from the door to the detective bullpen. Brad nodded to the memorials for his friends, then headed to his German shepherd’s side.

  They wandered through the maze of metal WWII-surplus office furniture to his back-corner desk.

  Brad tossed his black gloves on his desk, removed his parka and hung it in a coat tree. He dropped into his chair, put his feet on his desk, leaned back and sipped his coffee. Lobo crawled under the desk and was soon snoring.