Blue Justice - Thomas Anthony (книги регистрация онлайн TXT) 📗

“C’mon in quick,” she whispered.

We walked inside.

“I knew you all would come back,” she said, “I have been waiting for you.  I’m Gertrude Harris.”

Faulkner and I looked at each other and then at the woman.

“I am Detective Jackson and this is Agent Faulkner with the FBI.

I asked the first question.  “What can you tell us about the murder last night?”

She looked out through her blinds as if she was nervous.  Once she was satisfied, she turned to us and started talking.

“I saw him—I saw him kill her.”

My heart started racing.  Faulkner was excited too but tried to hide it.

“He was tall, black and wore a baseball cap,” she said.

“Did you see what he looked like?”  I asked.

“No, I couldn’t see his face but he was black I’m sure and he drove a black car, kind of like the one ya’ll driving out there.  That’s why I was looking so hard.”

“What else do you remember?” asked Agent Faulkner.  She was scribbling as fast as the woman could talk.

“He had pulled behind her car and they were talking for a little while.  I didn’t think nothing about it too much because it appeared that they knew each other.  I watched for a little while longer and was about to step away from the window until I seen him grab her and choke her.  He choked her all the way to the ground.  I saw him reach in his pocket for something and that is all I remember.”

“You say it looked as if they knew each other?”  I asked.

“That’s right.”

“Do you think you have ever seen this guy before in this area?”

No, but, by his shape—well I don’t know.”  She stopped to think.

I knew she had something and I needed to know what it was that she was thinking about.

“Mrs. Harris, whatever it is you are thinking about, could be important to this case.  It may even help us catch this guy before he kills again.”

She then looked at both of us.  “I believe I have seen him before,” she said.

“Where?  asked Faulkner, anxious for the answer.

“Well, I ain’t a hundred percent sure, but from his build and appearance, he looked like a mental health worker I remember seeing at the mental hospital on East Point near College Park where I used to take my daughter when she needed to go.  She passed a year ago.  This was her place and I just moved in and took over everything.”

“I am sorry to hear about your daughter, Mrs. Harris,” I said.

I felt like I wanted to ask more but I decided not to.

“Mrs. Harris, we do thank you for all your help.  I believe this will help us get a lead on who this guy is and catch him,” said Faulkner.

“I hope you do catch him.  I mourn enough already for my daughter.”

I saw the tears forming in her eyes.

“You’ve been a big help, ma’am,” I said.

We left the apartment and walked back to the car.  We didn’t talk until we got inside.

“What do you think, Detective?” she asked.  The question surprised me.

“The FBI asking me what I think?”  I laughed.

“Okay, okay, enough already.  C’mon, what do you think our next move should be?”

“Well, I think we should go to the mental hospital tonight.”

“Why not in the morning?” she asked.

“Because he works in the mornings.”

She looked at me puzzled, so I helped her.

“If you recall, he does all his killings at night.”

“Oh, damn,” she said.  Her dumbfounded facial expression confirmed what I already knew and that was I was damn good at this job.  Still she didn’t let on and being an FBI agent, I knew she wouldn’t give me that satisfaction.

“I really think we are on to something and we will find all of our answers at that mental hospital.”  My phone chimed.  It was Charlotte.

“Hey baby,” I said, “I’m glad to see you made it home.”

Charlotte and I talked a few minutes more.  I told her I had to go and that we were about to go check something out.  She still had her newspaper job and I knew she wanted details.  But I still had to be careful.  I told her she would get the full story for her column when we catch this guy.  I also thanked agent Faulkner for having her guys tail them back home.

“Okay, Agent Faulkner, let’s go catch this guy.”

“Margaret.”

I looked at her.

“Call me Margaret,” she said.  “I think we have got beyond titles now.

“Okay,” I said.  “Call me Jared.”

“Okay, Jared,” she said.

Chapter 6

The Psychological Behavioral Center was just inside the I-285 beltway that goes around Atlanta.

She parked her car in front and we got out and walked through the sliding doors.  We were met by a black overweight security guard with a frown.  He looked like we disturbed his food dream.

“Can I help you,” he asked in a husky voice.

I let Margaret do her thing.

“I’m Agent Falkner with the FBI.  I am working on a case and I need your help please.”

The guy came to life, with a sense of pride that the FBI needed his help.

“Yes ma’am, what do you need?” he asked straightening his shirt in his pants.

“Do you remember a Lenora Wells working here?”

He thought for a minute and then his eyes grew big to match his smile.

“Yes ma’am, I knew her, well I didn’t know her—know her, but I used to see her come to work when she worked here.  I believe she works at one of the hospitals downtown.”

I stayed quiet as Margaret filled his head with all the possibilities of helping the FBI and that when he applied for the agency, that she would give him a recommendation for hire.  I noticed that she did not leave her card.

After she was done, I asked him a question.

“By the way, is there or was there ever a tall black guy maybe bald that used to work here?  Or perhaps he still does?”

He thought again and rubbed his chin.  “Yeah, you are talking about Jennings.  He was a mental health worker.  Strange type and always kept to himself.”

“You remember what his first name was?”  I tried to hide the excitement in my voice but it didn’t work.  Margaret and I both were damn near leaning over the guy waiting for his answer.

“Yeah, it’s Money—Money Jennings.  I remember because some of the workers used to tease him about his first name, especially when he be looking broke all the time.  In fact some of them called him Baron Samedi, you know like the tall guy from one of those James Bond movies from long ago.”

Margaret and I looked at each other.  We had him.  We knew who he was.

“Do you have an address on that guy, or know where we might be able to find him?” asked Margaret.

“That is privileged information.  I could get fired for that.”

Both Margaret and I knew we couldn’t make him cross that line.

“Wait a minute,” he said.  He typed something into the computer and looked up at us.  “I have to go to the restroom.  Could you all watch the desk for me for a minute?”  He winked his eye at Margaret.

I moved my lips and formed the words, Thank You.

Margaret wrote down the address and we were out of there before he got back to the desk.

The address was near Kenilworth Avenue and Quarrels Street.  The ghetto.  The area looked run down.  Some buildings were boarded up.  Graffiti was on every wall.  Even an advertisement for buying crack was painted on one of the walls.  The name of the apartments was faded from the sign outside.

We walked to the first apartment, downstairs on the right.  I really wanted to knock the door down, but we really didn’t have any hard evidence that this was the guy.  I rapped on the door.  Nobody answered.  I looked at my watch; it was close to 10P.M.  I rapped on the door again but still no answer.  We heard a noise above us.

“If you are looking for Monday, he ain’t here,” said a teenaged boy.

“Do you know where he might be?”  I asked.

“Are you all cops?” he asked.

“No, we are friends of his from the hospital.”