Read Online Naked Justice by William Bernhardt - Free Book Online
Authors: William Bernhardt
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the press to stay back. It wasn’t working.
“ Pull your vehicle to the side of the road! ”
He rolled up his window. What was the point? He had to figure out what he was going to do. What the hell was he going to do?
He’d never be able to lose them. And he was coming up to the tollgate. He couldn’t stop. What was he doing to do?
All these unresolved dilemmas were suddenly blotted out by the appearance of a semitrailer truck dead on the horizon. It was barreling toward him, seconds from impact. Small wonder; he was more in the semi’s lane than in his own.
The semi driver laid on his horn. He couldn’t possibly move that huge heavy truck in time. Barrett knew it was up to him. He twisted the wheel around, jerking his Porsche to the right. He lurched out of the path of the semi at so sharp an angle he was practically perpendicular to the road. He careened off the shoulder and onto a nearby embankment.
He saw the brick tollbooth just ahead, illuminated in his headlights. He smashed his foot down on the brakes, but it was too late, much much too late.
“I’m coming home, Jesus!” His hands rose off the wheel and covered his face. The white brick wall filled his field of vision and he screamed for just an instant before the thunderous impact silenced him and everything around him faded to black.
Chapter 9
H OMICIDE DETECTIVE MIKE MORELLI pulled his Trans Am onto Terwilliger and searched for the house. The hardest part was not reading the numbers on the curbs; it was keeping his sagging eyelids pried open.
“Jeez, Tomlinson,” he groaned at the man in the passenger seat, “how long have we been awake?”
“Twenty-five hours and counting,” Tomlinson replied. Tomlinson was Mike’s protégé, a detective in training.
“Christ. How many murders can one little town in the heartland have? First that poor schmuck in the bathroom at the River Parks. Then a homeless man living in a cardboard box under the West End Bridge. And now the mayor’s entire family. Who’s next.”
“It’s been a tough night.”
“That’s for damn sure.” Mike massaged his face. “I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, I do,” Tomlinson said matter-of-factly. “Sunspots.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sunspots. Lots of sunspot activity today. I heard it on the radio. Crime always soars during high sunspot activity periods. It’s like the full moon.”
“Do tell.”
“Has something to do with shortcircuiting the synapses in our neural networks. All those little ganglia go snap! Tempers flare, and suddenly you’ve got a crime wave on your hands.”
“This is a fascinating theory, Tomlinson. Perhaps you should write this up for one of the police journals.”
“It’s been done. Well, not in the police journals, but in other influential publications.”
“Like the ones they sell at supermarket checkout stands?” Mike cruised to the end of the street. “Ah. This must be it.”
Cars were parked all around an impressive two-story brick house on the north side of the street. Swarms of people were streaming in and out of the house. A crowd was huddled on the front lawn; some people were even taking snapshots.
“What the hell is going on?” Mike put the car in neutral and jumped out, leaving Tomlinson to park.
Mike grabbed the first available cop he saw. “Who’s in charge?”
A young fresh-faced cop, who obviously knew who Mike was and knew better than to mess around with him, snapped to attention. “Lieutenant Prescott, sir.”
Mike’s teeth ground together. “Jesus God. Why did it have to be Prescott?”
“I don’t know, sir, I just arrived a few—”
Mike cut him off. “Why hasn’t this crime scene been cordoned off?”
“I—I don’t know, sir. I guess Lieutenant Prescott—”
“Is what? Incompetent?” Mike stomped up to the front porch. “Where the hell is he?”
The young cop lifted a shaking hand. “Inside,” he whispered.
Mike pushed his way through the door, bumping into a large
“ Pull your vehicle to the side of the road! ”
He rolled up his window. What was the point? He had to figure out what he was going to do. What the hell was he going to do?
He’d never be able to lose them. And he was coming up to the tollgate. He couldn’t stop. What was he doing to do?
All these unresolved dilemmas were suddenly blotted out by the appearance of a semitrailer truck dead on the horizon. It was barreling toward him, seconds from impact. Small wonder; he was more in the semi’s lane than in his own.
The semi driver laid on his horn. He couldn’t possibly move that huge heavy truck in time. Barrett knew it was up to him. He twisted the wheel around, jerking his Porsche to the right. He lurched out of the path of the semi at so sharp an angle he was practically perpendicular to the road. He careened off the shoulder and onto a nearby embankment.
He saw the brick tollbooth just ahead, illuminated in his headlights. He smashed his foot down on the brakes, but it was too late, much much too late.
“I’m coming home, Jesus!” His hands rose off the wheel and covered his face. The white brick wall filled his field of vision and he screamed for just an instant before the thunderous impact silenced him and everything around him faded to black.
Chapter 9
H OMICIDE DETECTIVE MIKE MORELLI pulled his Trans Am onto Terwilliger and searched for the house. The hardest part was not reading the numbers on the curbs; it was keeping his sagging eyelids pried open.
“Jeez, Tomlinson,” he groaned at the man in the passenger seat, “how long have we been awake?”
“Twenty-five hours and counting,” Tomlinson replied. Tomlinson was Mike’s protégé, a detective in training.
“Christ. How many murders can one little town in the heartland have? First that poor schmuck in the bathroom at the River Parks. Then a homeless man living in a cardboard box under the West End Bridge. And now the mayor’s entire family. Who’s next.”
“It’s been a tough night.”
“That’s for damn sure.” Mike massaged his face. “I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, I do,” Tomlinson said matter-of-factly. “Sunspots.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sunspots. Lots of sunspot activity today. I heard it on the radio. Crime always soars during high sunspot activity periods. It’s like the full moon.”
“Do tell.”
“Has something to do with shortcircuiting the synapses in our neural networks. All those little ganglia go snap! Tempers flare, and suddenly you’ve got a crime wave on your hands.”
“This is a fascinating theory, Tomlinson. Perhaps you should write this up for one of the police journals.”
“It’s been done. Well, not in the police journals, but in other influential publications.”
“Like the ones they sell at supermarket checkout stands?” Mike cruised to the end of the street. “Ah. This must be it.”
Cars were parked all around an impressive two-story brick house on the north side of the street. Swarms of people were streaming in and out of the house. A crowd was huddled on the front lawn; some people were even taking snapshots.
“What the hell is going on?” Mike put the car in neutral and jumped out, leaving Tomlinson to park.
Mike grabbed the first available cop he saw. “Who’s in charge?”
A young fresh-faced cop, who obviously knew who Mike was and knew better than to mess around with him, snapped to attention. “Lieutenant Prescott, sir.”
Mike’s teeth ground together. “Jesus God. Why did it have to be Prescott?”
“I don’t know, sir, I just arrived a few—”
Mike cut him off. “Why hasn’t this crime scene been cordoned off?”
“I—I don’t know, sir. I guess Lieutenant Prescott—”
“Is what? Incompetent?” Mike stomped up to the front porch. “Where the hell is he?”
The young cop lifted a shaking hand. “Inside,” he whispered.
Mike pushed his way through the door, bumping into a large
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