Loading...Part 4 of my 'Justice Series' on Sulekha.
Justice Above the Law by Rajiv Ramaratnam on Sulekha
“Officer, isn't it cruel to handcuff me?” The lad said. “This is only a minor traffic violation.”
It almost broke my heart. The kid must have been fifteen or sixteen. I heard myself say, “Sir, you were driving without a license. I have to arrest you. Besides I don't know who you are. You could well be a serial killer. I have a family to go back to tonight, and every night.”
I expressed my regrets and nudged him into my car.
“Do I look like a serial killer?” The boy asked, on the ride to the station.
“I don't know what they look like,” I replied.
Later the boy was sent home after his mother angrily paid the $500 bail. He was to appear in court on a later date. I lay in bed that night, replaying that morning's incident. I was right. I did not know who he was. But I did lie about one thing. I did know how one serial killer looked like. He was as old as the lad I had arrested earlier that day. Maybe better looking…
Three years ago a sick killer christened 'Killer Santa' was found dead in a downtown apartment complex. He was never caught and was never brought to justice. His victims were found in dumpsters with their throats cut and Christmas cards stuck to them. Santa used his victim's own clotted blood as glue to attach the cards to their faces. A stray bullet fired during a domestic dispute involving his neighbors killed him by sheer accident. DNA evidence and other evidence found at the residence of the deceased helped confirm that 'Killer Santa' was no longer in our midst.
Then similar killings began to happen across our suburb. Another psychotic puppy followed in Killer Santa's footsteps. He proudly called himself the 'Copycat'. The variation in his style was that all of his four victims were teenagers and all the Christmas cards he used had a picture of a black cat on them. He proudly announced on each of them that this was his 'Copycat' autograph.
Our criminal profiler theorized that this was probably an intelligent young man with a high IQ. With mounting public outcry, our department was under constant media and political pressure to find this creature.
We finally got our break when an eighteen-year-old girl called us and let us know that her boyfriend had confessed to being the Copycat killer in a drunken fit, after striking her across the face. She also gave us some details of the murders, which we had withheld from the press.
The task of apprehending the suspect and bringing him in was assigned to my partner and me. Upon arriving at his apartment, I had little doubt that we had got our man. The apartment was a shrine to the likes of Ted Bundy, Charles Manson and of course, Killer Santa. There was a shelf, full of books on serial killers. There were news clippings of his heroes, with grotesque pictures of victims. The big giveaway was a desk drawer full of articles on the Copycat killer and a few Christmas cards, with the picture of a black cat on them.
My partner and I squeezed the kid into my car as we drove back to the station. We interrogated him for about an hour. He admitted to killing all the victims and explained his actions in vivid detail. His manner was defiant. His eyes swelled with pride. When it comes to corrupting souls, the devil does not indulge in age discrimination.
A brief hour later, his rich dad and lawyer arrived. I could see where the kid got his arrogance and hostility. From the looks of his father, it was more than evident that his father had not spent much time with this boy in the vital formative years. The old man wore his haughtiness on his sleeve and had passed on this legacy to his only child. Daddy posted the necessary bail and got his son out sooner than I could finish my lunch that day.
As the boy sat in his father's Audi he caught a glimpse of me starting at him. He gave me a devilish grin and then the finger. I felt a surge of anger fill over me. I immediately called the DA on my cell.
I reached the waterhole early that evening. The talk I had had with the DA had dampened my spirits even more. It was going to be impossible to try the boy as an adult. His father's attorney would ensure that the odds were in his favor. The boy's confession meant nothing as we had spoken to a minor, in the absence of his parent and his attorney. The judge would have the evidence thrown out. This kid was going to walk.
I left the bar at midnight. I staggered to my car. Instinctively, in a fit of sanity I reached for my cell phone and called a cab. A drunk driving charge was one crisis I did not need at this time. I reached home, walked past my nagging wife and locked myself in my study. I tried hard to concentrate and searched for a way to restore some sense to my world.
I looked through my stash of articles to find some way to bring the fiend to justice. I went through my journals of the past decade, looking for some direction. In the early hours of the dawn, a plan manifested itself. I knew what needed to be done. Immediately I found the sleep that had eluded me for all these weeks.
The following night the Copycat opened his 20th floor apartment after a night of drinking. As he turned on the light, he saw me sitting on his favorite couch, brandishing my Smith and Wesson.
“Step in and close the door.” I commanded. He obeyed. “Are you going to shoot me here, officer?” He asked me mockingly. “My father will deal with you and you family,” he threatened.
“Tonight we are going to get you some therapy,” I said. “Rejoice, for your retribution is here.”
“You can't make me.” He said.
“Can't I?” I retorted. I gestured toward his bed. I had laid out all his knives neatly on the mattress.
“Do unto you as you do to your victims,” I said, philosophically.
As his face turned white, I paused.
“You will begin by calling your girlfriend and apologizing for all the abuse you gave her.” I said.
I recalled the next morning. In the absence of my boss, who was on vacation, I was called in to make a statement to the press. Taking a deep breath, I faced the microphones.
“We have now confirmed that the young man who jumped off his 20th floor balcony, is in fact the Copycat killer. In addition to his letters of apologies to the families of the victims that he wrote and a call he made to his ex-girlfriend last night, some more evidence was found in his apartment that confirmed beyond doubt that this was the Copycat. This is an open and shut case.”
“Officer, why do you think he made these confessions and then killed himself?” An attractive brunette with a press badge asked me.
“I am not a psychiatrist.” I replied. “Maybe he found God or maybe he wanted to emulate his hero, Killer Santa. He probably wanted to die without serving a day in prison.”
I thought of those days as I lay in bed reminiscing. Three years had gone by since that incident. This had been a very easy day, with just one traffic violation. Having got into the mindset of burglars on more than one occasion, I became an expert at breaking into an apartment and cleaning up fingerprints and other giveaway evidence. My actions would never be condoned by any human court of law. I fell into a deep sleep soon after this thought.
When morning came, I walked into my teenage daughter's room, to find her fast asleep. I gave her a little peck on the cheek and descended the stairs for breakfast. I knew at least four fathers in the area who did not have that luxury.
