Divine Justice Read online

  Jasi's stomach lurched and she studied the photo again.

  What happened to you?

  The smiling―and alive―Monty Winkler in the photo reminded her of someone, a comedian. The father in American Pie. He had the same curly black hair, a prominent nose, bushy eyebrows and dark intelligent eyes circled by black frames. A man like him with average height, weight and looks would normally blend into a crowd, except that he had a charismatic personality that most people found very appealing.

  Married, with no kids, Winkler was a dedicated Member of Parliament and a firm supporter of gun rights, and although women hovered around him like flies, he'd always appeared committed to his wife.

  What was her name?

  Jasi consulted a file on her data-com. Ah, Marilyn!

  "Marilyn's going to take this hard, Monty."

  Her eyes wandered across the photo again and she glanced back at the decomposing body. "How can you be the same man who wielded such charm that you had college girls and married women practically swooning at your feet?"

  "Pardon me?" Copeland said, distracted.

  "Don't mind me. I have a habit of talking to the dead."

  "As long as they don't talk back."

  "So you're sure this is Monty Winkler?"

  Copeland nodded. "We made a positive ID from the DNA I pulled from his hair and matched to a hairbrush his wife brought in."

  Jasi tried to picture Monty Winkler as she'd last seen him on television. He was a well respected man, for a former lawyer. Unlike many of his fellow MPs, Winkler had kept himself in shape with a regimented routine of low-carb health food and running and weightlifting every morning. He'd looked damn good for a man nearing his fifties.

  But you don't make a very good-looking corpse.

  She hovered over the table, scanning every inch of Winkler's body. Unfortunately, the fire and the river had destroyed most of the physical evidence. And sitting in cold storage for almost three days didn't help either.

  "COD?" she asked without taking her eyes away.

  "In layman's terms, he drowned in freshwater," Copeland said. "There's a substantial amount of fluid in his airway and stomach, and his lungs are inflated. We were able to confirm the presence of diatoms, which we identified and were able to match to a specific section of the Ottawa River."

  "Which section?"

  "From Mud Lake―that's west of the city―to the MacDonald Cartier Bridge to the north. Ironically, he would have died soon anyway."

  "Why?"

  "There was blunt force trauma to the neurocranium. His brain was hemorrhaging."

  Since rigor mortis was fading, Copeland was able to carefully turn Winkler's partially shaved head so Jasi could view the injuries. The back of the skull was exposed. Fragments of parietal and occipital bone were embedded in a frenzied array of circular indentations, some of them overlapping.

  "Any idea what caused these wounds?"

  Copeland shook her head. "Never seen anything like it."

  "Could they be accidental? From the river maybe?"

  "No, not with this grouping so close together."

  "So he was hit on the back of the head numerous times."

  "With a heavy circular object," Copeland added, "approximately an inch and a half in diameter."

  Jasi chewed her bottom lip for a moment.

  "Why do you say he was hit with a heavy object?"

  Copeland strode across the room to a workstation. She tapped on a touch screen and brought up a 3-D hologram of Winkler's wounds.

  "There are ten of these impressions, Agent McLellan. Notice their depth. They're small in circumference, yet deep, meaning two things. The perp was enraged and the weapon had some weight to it, otherwise it would've broken or folded under pressure and left uneven marks, not these perfect circles."

  The pathologist zoomed in on the occipital region.

  "Each impression shows a slight angle of impact. I believe he was either hit from behind by a very tall man or he was kneeling or sitting."

  Jasi studied the hologram. "Maybe the killer used a metal pipe?"

  "Could be. But it's an odd way to wield a pipe."

  Copeland was right. Most pipe injuries were made with the side or length of a pipe, causing long, cylindrical wounds.

  "Maybe he was jabbed with a martial arts weapon," Copeland said.

  "What about defensive wounds?"

  "He couldn't have fought back. Toxicology report came back positive for flunitrazepam."

  "Flunitrazepam?"

  "You'd know it as Rohypnol."

  Jasi's heart skipped a beat. "The date rape drug?"

  "Flunitrazepam has sedative, paralytic and amnestic properties, which is why it's been a popular in rape cases. The victim loses muscle control and often ends up with anterograde amnesia and can't recall what happened."

  "Winkler wasn't raped, was he?"

  "No. My guess is someone wanted him docile."

  Jasi paced the floor. "Rohypnol isn't easy to get."

  "Not anymore. Ever since drug manufacturers started adding noticeable dyes to the tablets, we've seen less of it in the clubs and on the streets. It is available in injectable liquid, but you'd have to acquire it in Mexico or overseas."

  Copeland tapped the screen and brought up a holographic image of Winkler's upper left arm.

  "This is the injection site," she said, pointing to a small dark spot. "He was given a large dose."

  Jasi peered over the woman's shoulder at the body on the table. How could someone have gotten close enough to Winkler to stick him with a hypodermic?

  "The drug was administered about a half hour before the scalp wounds were inflicted," Copeland said. "He wouldn't have felt much, but he was conscious enough to know what was happening. Shortly afterward, he was lit on fire."

  "Jesus!"

  "The burn pattern is consistent with the use of an accelerant. What's unusual is that the regions here and here weren't burned to the same extent."

  Jasi studied the area the pathologist had indicated. The left side of the body was less burnt than the rest.

  "Do you think something was covering him?"

  The smile Copeland gave her had the effect of taking ten years off the woman. "Watch closely, Agent McLellan."

  The pathologist tapped the touch screen and the hologram began to fold in as if Winkler were sitting down. Then the 3-dimensional form rotated on one side.

  "He was lying on his left side when the accelerant was poured on him," Jasi observed.

  Copeland nodded. "In a small, restrictive space. He didn't die from smoke inhalation, although there was some smoke damage to his lungs. He was dumped into the river shortly afterward, still breathing."

  "What's the estimated time of death?"

  "TOD is between eleven p.m. and two a.m. on April 13." She grimaced. "Friday the 13th, to be exact."

  "Did you send your report to the CFBI?"

  "Yes, and I uploaded an image of the wound pattern."

  Jasi did something next that made the pathologist gasp. She strode toward the corpse on the table and leaned forward, her nose barely an inch from the scorched flesh. Shutting her eyes, she inhaled deeply.

  "Agent McLellan?" the woman said, concerned.

  "I have a keen sense of smell. Oversensitive olfactory nerve."

  She wasn't really lying. Then again, she couldn't exactly tell the woman that she was hoping traces of smoke still lingered on Winkler's body, enough to set off her psychic abilities so she could enter a killer's mind.

  She inhaled again.

  Nothing. Not one flash. Not one sick, twisted thought.

  She shivered.

  The dead won't speak to me.

  She thought of the young girl who had haunted her nightmares ever since she was a child. The girl waited each night in the closet of her dreams, a pink skipping rope strangling her last breath. She'd never said a word either.

  "You okay?" Copeland asked.

  "Yeah."

  The woman eyed her
suspiciously. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, Agent McLellan, but you look awfully―" She broke off, closed her mouth.

  "Young?" Jasi chuckled. "I get that all the time. But trust me, Dr. Copeland, there isn't much I haven't seen."

  The look Faith Copeland gave her was one Jasi had seen a million times before. In her father's eyes. The look said, "Why in God's name would a young woman go into such a depressing and dangerous line of work?"

  Because of Mom, she wanted to tell him.

  The pathologist patted her arm. "Seeing death the way we do, day in and day out, has a way of making you value your own mortality."

  Jasi raised a brow. "Meaning?"

  "Life is for the living, Agent McLellan."

  "Yeah, but I have to find justice for the dead first."

  Out in the hallway, Jasi pushed Copeland's dire warning to the back of her mind and searched for her partner. She found him standing near the information desk, chatting with a smiling blond who looked fresh out of college and eager to make his acquaintance.

  "Hey, partner!"

  "Took you long enough," he said, moving toward her. "I was getting bored."

  She smiled wryly. "Didn't look like you were bored."

  Eleven years her senior, Agent Benjamin Roberts gave off an air of quiet confidence. At thirty-six, he had several commendations for solving some of Canada's most gruesome, high profile murder cases. Jasi counted her blessings that she'd been paired with Ben and not one of the older PSI agents. Most of them thought she was too young to be a good field agent. Except Ben. He was a patient team leader, a top-notch profiler and her best friend.

  While he led her to an empty alcove, she studied her partner. Lean, six and a half feet of muscle and agility―and a Psychometric Empath to boot―Ben wore a navy blue Armani suit with ease. Not many men could it pull off, but Ben was at home in a well-fitted suit, the way most men practically lived in their favorite pair of old jeans. Armani was his middle name.

  Or it should be, she thought.

  She was sometimes tempted to ask him how he could afford such clothes. Sure, they made good money, but not that much. Regardless, there was more to Ben than he let on. One day she'd find out his secrets.

  "So what did you get off Winkler's suit?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "What little was left of it was tainted by fire, water and decomp. What about you?"

  "The pathologist was very helpful. Can't say the same for Monty Winkler."

  "No vision?"

  "Not a flicker. The river washed away all traces of smoke. I couldn't smell a thing other than decaying body parts, but we did get a COD. Monty Winkler drowned, and there was prior blunt force trauma to the back of his head."

  She described the strange circular wounds.

  "Pretty brutal," he said. "Sounds like a rage killing."

  "He was also drugged."

  "With what?"

  "Rohypnol. He was given an injection to immobilize him." Her mouth thinned. "Copeland says there are no signs of rape. Later, someone pounded on his head with an unidentifiable weapon and set him on fire."

  She told him about the uneven burn pattern on the body and Copeland's theory that Winkler had been placed into a restrictive space before an accelerant was poured on him.

  "He was dumped in the Ottawa River," she said.

  They were silent for a moment.

  "A trunk of a car is quite restrictive," Ben suggested.

  She shook her head. "Smaller. He was practically in a fetal position. Maybe a box of some kind."

  The blond from the information desk strolled past, giving Ben a coy look that said, "Call me! Day or night."

  "You going to call her?" Jasi asked when the woman disappeared into an office.

  Ben shook his head and glanced at his gloved hands.

  She let out an irritated huff. "You can't let those get in the way―"

  "You know what can happen, Jasi."

  "That doesn't mean you have to live like a monk."

  "Monks aside," he retorted, "let's stop discussing my personal life and focus on what we're going to report to Matthew."

  "I think he wasted his time sending us." She looked up at him. "Or at least me."

  "Matthew knows what he's doing. He sent us here for a reason."

  "Because the government takes care of their own."

  "It's been almost a week since they found Winkler. The Ottawa Police Service conducted the preliminary investigation before it was handed over to the RCMP. They've interviewed anyone who came into contact with Winkler before he went missing. Every alibi checked out. Everyone is stumped. That's why we were called in." He smiled. "Besides, Matthew thinks you're ready to lead your own team. This is good prep for you."

  She pursed her lips. "What if I don't want my own team? Did anyone ever think of that?"

  "Jasi―"

  "No, don't Jasi me," she snapped. "I like working with you, Ben. We're good together. With our skills, we complement each other. We make a great team. I don't get why Matthew doesn't see that."

  "He knows what's best."

  Frustrated, she changed the subject. "Did Winkler have any personal belongings?"

  "Nothing in his pockets, no wallet, no identification. Whoever did this even removed his wedding band."

  "Didn't want an ID made."

  She steered him down the hall, making for the doors to fresh air and life. Morgues always gave her a chill. Death lingered in the air, in every corner.

  Around 9:30, they crossed the gloomy parking lot. One streetlight at the far end provided the only light. She noted that two others weren't working.

  "Remind me to mention something to Copeland about the poor lighting out here," she said.

  They located the rental, a black SUV with dark tinted windows, the CFBI's definition of inconspicuous transportation. Ben unlocked the doors and slid behind the wheel, and Jasi climbed into the passenger seat.

  "We'll have a full pathology report from Dr. Copeland by tomorrow," she said. "For now, we know that someone drugged Winkler, beat him, doused him in an accelerant, set his body on fire and threw him into the river."

  Ben frowned. "Kind of overkill, don't you think?"

  "That's exactly what I was thinking."

  "Intense rage and overkill. What does that tell you?"

  "It tells me that someone wanted Monty Winkler deader than dead." She looked Ben in the eye. "And Winkler knew his assailant."

  "So the question is…who?"

  She gave him a scornful look. "Are you kidding? He's a politician. Probably had people lining up at his door, just waiting for an opportunity."

  "Yeah, I think you're right about that." He fastened his seatbelt, started the car and inched it out into the busy traffic. "Well, since you're in training for team leader, why don't you tell me what we should do next?"

  Ben was testing her again. He'd been doing that a lot the last two weeks. On his say-so, she'd be ready to lead her own team. Something she'd been waiting for. She'd been going through all the manuals, studying past cases, listening to and watching recorded testimonies for weeks. She was more than ready to lead her own team.

  "We should start with his last known whereabouts and last contacts. Next, we should interview witnesses, make a list of known enemies, find out if any death threats had been issued and look into his political―" She broke off. "Hey, wasn't Winkler the swing-vote in the small arms rights bill a few months ago?"

  "Winkler pushed it through before anyone could blink."

  "And a lot of people were pissed."

  Monty Winkler was responsible for the new law that now gave Canadians the freedom to carry handguns. As long as they carried permits, of course. The gun law had created a surge of dissention across Canada. Some thought it was a long time coming, considering the US had implemented a similar law decades ago. Others thought it would lead to higher crime rates.

  For weeks afterward, thousands of people gathered on Parliament grounds across Canada, some in support and some i
n protest. The pro-gun crowd wanted fewer restrictions on licensing, while the anti-gun crowd protested Canadians carrying weapons at all. Ironically, three people were injured two months ago outside Ottawa's Parliament Hill. They'd been shot by an enraged pro-gun advocate, while the anti-gun crowd carried around massive signs showing dead teenagers in a high school cafeteria and a blood-soaked Toronto alley sealed off with crime tape.

  One particularly gruesome sign was a screen capture of Brett Laughlin slumped on his bed, brain matter pooling on the blanket beneath him. After being taunted mercilessly by a group of cyber-bullies, the shy, overweight sixteen-year-old had logged into an online video chat room, then sat down on the bed with his stepfather's newly purchased Walther PPX semi-automatic pistol hidden behind his back.

  "Today is my last day of suffering. And I'm glad."

  Brett spoke about his persecutors, about the beatings in the boys' change room, about the time he'd been forced to lick one boy's feet clean. Sobbing uncontrollably, he told the world how difficult it was to not fit in.

  "It's not easy being the most unpopular kid in school. I'm afraid every day of what they'll do to me. But no more. I can't do this anymore."

  He described how he'd suffered at the hands of his stepfather, who beat him for being weak and not fighting back.

  "I just wanted to be liked. I didn't care if I was super popular, but maybe just some respect. Instead I was treated worse than an animal, and no one gave a shit. Not my mother, and especially not that asshole she married." He swiped at the tears on his face. "So why should I care? I'll never be popular. I'll never even be liked."

  With millions of horrified people―mostly unsuspecting teens―watching live, Brett Laughlin put the gun to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening.

  In a matter of seconds, his grisly death had become the most popular cyber-suicide video to hit VidWurld, with over thirty million world-wide views before the Laughlin family got a court order to shut it down.