CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

 

NIÑO AUKINS HOISTED his backpack onto his shoulder as he walked towards the main entrance of Mercy South Hospital at a brisk pace, fast enough to keep ahead of the police officers who had arrived a few minutes ago, but not—he hoped—so fast that his speed would attract their attention.

His timing was fortunate: the two cops at the door were so distracted by the arrival of their colleagues that they barely glanced at him.

“You a reporter?” one of them asked, giving his fellow officers a nod.

“No, I’m sick.”

“I find out you’re a reporter, you will be. Go on.”

Inside, he felt that he had legitimately earned the right to break into a sweat. This was madness. He hadn’t wanted to come here, but Mister Romley had insisted. When Mister Romley insists, you comply or you say goodbye to the use of your elbows.

This would have been easier if Romley had given him more time.

Twenty minutes ago, Romley had told Niño what he had to do, and Niño had tried to gently persuade Mister Romley that it wasn’t the best idea. Over the following minutes, Niño had graduated from gentle persuasion to pleading and actual crying, but Romley was stuck on the idea. The tears had been good: Niño’s eyes were still red and his face was haggard—very useful when you want to pretend you’re sick.

He knew the hospital well and was sure of where he was going, but in order to look more patient-like, he dutifully followed the line of red tape on the floor all the way to the orthopaedics unit, then the purple footprints led him through the X-ray building and to the day wards. Here, he ducked into the men’s room and into one of the stalls, where he opened his backpack and removed an old T-shirt, his elasticated sweatpants and a pair of slippers.

A few minutes later, Niño made his way along one of the hospital’s upper corridors until he found the geriatrics’ ward. There, he purloined a wheeled drip-stand and a glucose bag from a sleeping patient.

On the next floor up, slightly hunched over and leaning on the drip-stand for support, Niño slowly shuffled towards the four cops on guard duty outside Officer Roderick Chaplin’s room. The cops didn’t know him, he was almost certain about that. He ought to be able to walk right past them; they wouldn’t have any reason to think he was anything but another patient.

But he hadn’t expected four of them. One would have been tricky enough, but four was impossible. Mister Romley had told him, “Niño, if that cop dies, the rest of them are either going to go to war with the Judges, or they’ll walk out. Either way, that drastically reduces the security on the warehouse where they’re holding the merchandise. That’s our opportunity to go and take it back.”

“And get our people out,” Niño had said.

“Sure, whatever...” After a pause, Romley had said, “Actually, yes, that’s perfect. We free our people and that’s an even bigger distraction while they’re rounding them up. So, Niño, your job is to find a way into Chaplin’s room and unplug him from life support or tie a knot in his air hose or whatever it takes to sign him off forever.”

Niño had tried to protest, claiming he’d never killed anyone before. That wasn’t strictly true, of course, but he’d never deliberately murdered anyone. Not actually plotted to kill them and then carried it out. The nine people who had died at his hands were more victims of circumstance than victims of Niño. Especially the first three: they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, an unfortunate synchronisation of their act of burglary and his commission of arson. And the next one, the old lady, should have believed him: when a carjacker points a gun at you, you have to accept that there’s at least a possibility that the gun is loaded.

He realised that he couldn’t recall the fifth person he’d killed and felt guilty about that for a moment, until he remembered where he was and figured that it was probably best to focus on the here and now.

Like the cops at the main entrance, the four outside Chaplin’s room barely noticed him. Two of them had clearly arrived only recently—they were still stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together to get warm—and the other two were giving them a report on the situation. If Romley had given me more time...

“He’s out of the woods now, doc said. The bullet missed anything major. But still, damn Judge could have killed him. He tried to kill him, I think. Didn’t even give him a warning, is what I heard. Like, you put a man under pressure like that, then he snaps and shoots the perp, whose fault is it? Not Chaplin’s. The Judges are gonna either kill us all, or force us out.”

“Damn right. You know why, don’t you? If we’re dead or we quit, they don’t have to pay us severance. That’s what I figure.”

Niño felt his sweat-slicked hand losing grip on the drip-stand and paused long enough to wipe his hand on his hip. He tried—and failed—not to think about the gun taped to the inside of his left thigh. Four cops, eight rounds in the magazine. Two each, then I strangle Chaplin and... No, he’s the priority, have to save a couple of rounds for him. One shot in each cop. That’s not easy.

No, wait, kill one cop and take his gun. That’s a whole new clip. Use that one to fire at the other cops, then go for Chaplin. Then... then how do I get away?

Jesus, if I’d had more time, I could have gone home and taken another hit. Just a quick one. See me through.

“Keep movin’,” one of the cops said, mostly out of reflex.

Niño didn’t acknowledge him. He just reaffirmed his grip on the stand and resumed shuffling. There’s no way this can be done, Niño told himself. So that’s it. I’m dead. Mister Romley is going to—

An idea struck him so hard that he almost stopped again. The Judges are not the cops. I could never turn Romley in because I didn’t know who he had on his payroll; but it’s different now. You can’t bribe or threaten a Judge. They’d just shoot you right there and then. Romley has no power over the Judges. Which means he has no power over me.

The idea was growing more attractive by the moment. Niño continued slowly shuffling down the corridor, and by the time he’d reached the elevator, he’d made up his mind.

 

 

“HOW THE HELL old are you, anyway?” Officer Gress asked.

“That’s not relevant,” Judge Rowain said. She pointed to the room’s only other chair and said, “Sit.”

“You’re about twenty-six, right? I’m twice your age. I’ve been a cop since before you were even born. You don’t give me orders. And you damn well don’t interrogate me without my lawyer and my union rep present!”

Rowain knew that by now there’d be a cluster of other officers watching from the observation room, and more listening at the door, and no doubt there was someone telling Captain Witcombe what was happening, but she refused to let that distract her. “Gress, sit. Now. Or I’ll charge you with refusing to comply with a Judge’s order. That’s a six-month sentence minimum.”

Officer Sophia Gress pulled the chair away from the table and sat down, glaring at Judge Rowain. “Then let’s get this crap done and we can both get on with our lives. But my union will hear about this, I promise you that.”

“Out in the lobby, Officer Stenning said, ‘Being a Judge is what got CJ Leandros killed.’ Your reaction to that was to say, ‘Goddamn it, Stenning!’ What did you mean?”

Gress shrugged. “I just wanted Stenning to shut up. Guy’s a good cop, but he talks too much.”

“You’re lying, Gress. Tell me what you really meant.”

“Why don’t you ask him? He’s the one who said that about Leandros!”

“I’m asking you. Stenning believes Judge Leandros made herself a target by becoming a Judge. A lot of people think that way. But it’s how you reacted to Stenning’s comment that doesn’t sit with me. What do you think he knows?”

Gress leaned forward and rested her arms on the table. “You can’t force me to talk.”

“Who killed Judge Charlotte-Jane Leandros?”

“I don’t know. Everyone here loved that kid. We grew up with her. I’ve got a picture at home that she drew for me when she was six! I don’t know anything about her death. Hell, you can damn well torture me if you want, but I can’t tell you something I don’t know.”

“But you suspect something,” Rowain said. “If someone wanted to send a message to the rest of us, then why pick local girl Leandros and not a stranger like me or Deacon or the others? Was it because she was alone? Or maybe it was personal. Someone had a problem with Leandros herself. One of her brothers, maybe. Stavros and CJ argued only a few hours before she died. He was upset that she joined the Justice Department. Was that it? They got into a fight and he killed her?”

Gress slowly shook her head. “I don’t know anything about it. But Stavros would never kill CJ. Neither would Benny. They adored her. Even her becoming a Judge wouldn’t get in the way of that.”

Rowain sat back and watched Gress staring back her. She suspects something... But she’s not certain. That means her suspicions are about another cop, or someone else she feels she has a duty to protect. Maybe that’s my angle here...

“Officer Gress... Sophia. Let me put it as simply as I can. You don’t tell me what you know, you’re an accessory.”

Gress snorted. “Hah, yeah! Good luck proving that in a court of law! You’re never going—” She stopped, and dry-swallowed. “Oh, God. There is no court of law any more. I mean, there won’t be, soon.” She ran her hands over her face, and took a deep breath. “We... Judge, we deal with evidence. You understand that? Actual, physical evidence. Guy shoots his wife, ideally we’ll have a gun and a body. If we have neither, then there’s a chance that the guy will get off. It’s not perfect, but it’s fair. Because sometimes the guy didn’t shoot his wife, sometimes it was someone else. We can’t lock him up without actual proof, or near-as-damn-it circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t crop up without a billion-to-one coincidence. Your way is to intimidate everyone until someone snaps and starts pointing fingers. That’s not justice!”

“Just tell me what you know. What you suspect. Then let me decide whether it’s worth pursuing.”

“No. Go to hell, Judge. You can threaten me all you want, but I’m no rat.”

Rowain nodded. That had been for the benefit of anyone listening, she realised. Gress wanted to talk, but didn’t feel safe. She’s just admitted that she suspects a cop was involved.