True Justice

PROLOGUE

         As my heart began to fail, my mind started drifting off.  I felt like I was losing myself, losing my mind.  Maybe it was from the shock, or from the lack of oxygen to my brain.  Maybe it was all a nightmare, conceived in the subconscious of my mind.  I was more dead than alive, but I was still awake.  Although I had not been breathing for several minutes, there was still a part of me that was conscious, absorbing the fading world I was surrounded by. 

There was a large amount of commotion around me: paramedics, EMTs, doctors; all sorts of EMS personnel that I knew nothing of, and who knew nothing of me.  But for some reason, they had a passion to ensure my survival.  Funny how that works.  I began to fade again, away from the people, away from the noise.  I went back into that familiar corner of my brain; a tiny, silent room called unconsciousness.  It was a comforting place, a place to get away from the pain and worries of life.  But, of course, it was not perfect.

Without warning, the floor gave way and I fell right back into what had gotten me here in the first place.  It played over and over in my head, like a broken movie reel stuck in the worst part of a terrible film.  I saw her, and I saw him.  I tried to run to her, but I could not move.  I tried to yell out, but made no sound.  Finally, my legs came to life and I ran.  I ran right at him, ignoring the fact that he held a deadly weapon in his hand.  I dove in front of him as he squeezed the trigger, hoping to save her.

As I felt the bullet tear through my chest, time slowed down and I was floating in the air.  As I fell, my mind went numb with pain and, in an instant, I hit the floor.  I looked up and realized I was not where I had been seconds ago.  I stood up, the pain in my chest gone, and looked around the room.  I was again in that little room in the corner of my mind.  The floor that had originally given way was back in place and I was standing on it firmly.  I went to the single window in the room and pulled the shades open, hoping to air out the suffocating atmosphere I was choking on.  But there was no air, no light, no hope of relief from my subconscious prison.

I saw myself lying motionless on the cold ground, a small pool of blood surrounding my wound.  As I watched myself lying in subliminal pain, I wondered, was it worth it?  What would make a sensible person do such a thing?  Why is love so irrational, so unpredictable, that one would give their life without thinking twice?  What is it about love that gets rid of one’s common sense, of all logical thinking, and makes one just do?  Is love even real, or do we just use it as an excuse for totally irrational actions?  Whatever the circumstances add up to be, whatever the true answer is, I love her.

Of any God-forsaken thing in this world, that is the one thing I’m sure of.  But love is imperfect, as is everything in life.  I looked away from myself and over to another person lying on the same cold ground, as motionless as I.  It was her, lying in another pool of blood.  The bullet had passed through me, and hit its original target.  My efforts were in vein, my purpose for living gone, my hopes and dreams crushed.  I could never live my dream of a perfect life.  I could never have things go the way I’d like.  I could never save her.

CHAPTER 1

Dead Or Alive

         
         It was mid afternoon when Shane Stryker awoke in a cold sweat to the ringing of the phone at his bedside.  It took him a while to shake off his dream, which had felt so real.  It continued to linger in his thoughts as he reached for the phone.

         “Stryker,” he said, after struggling to take the phone off the hook.
         “Stryker, it’s Goodwyn.  Someone took his body.  It’s gone.”
         “What?  You’d better be joking!
         “Honest to God, Stryker.  He’s gone.”
         “Damn!  Where are you?”
         “I’m on this two way road between the prison and the morgue where the coroner’s car was found.  Not a warm body in sight.”

         “Okay, send the coordinates to my PDA.  I’ll be right over.”
         “You’ve got it.”
         Stryker slammed the phone down onto the hook, almost breaking it.
         “Shit!” he thought to himself.  “I thought all of this was finally over.  The last thing I need are federal bloodhounds after me.”

         He heard his PDA beeping.  He walked across the room and picked it up off the desk along with his LAPD standard issue sidearm as he left his apartment.  Glancing at it before stuffing it into his pocket, he noticed that it was not Goodwyn sending his coordinates, but an email alert.  He went back into his apartment and logged onto his laptop.  What he saw made the hairs on his neck stand.

The sender was “El látigo de justicia:”  The Scourge of Justice.  This was what Malcolm Kretz, the man who Goodwyn said was missing, called himself.  This was the man who was executed by means of lethal injection the night before.  Stryker struggled to catch his breath, clicking the subject line that read “Case Reopened.”  Stryker was breathing hard, almost to the point of hyperventilation.  He read the following text:

         Stryker, Stryker, pissing his pants,
         “The Scourge, he lives!” is what they chant.
         “But how, but how, they shot him up?”
         Apparently poison is not enough.
         “Stryker, Stryker, save us please,”
         Everyone begging on their knees.
         The Scourge, he’s invincible, he can’t be killed,
         Justice will perish, a vengeance fulfilled.

Stryker was shaking so hard he thought he was going into shock.  He felt his spine tingling like it had been injected with Novocain.  He felt as if he was going into a trance.  Stryker was brought back to reality by the beeping of his PDA.  He pulled it out of his pocket and saw that Goodwyn had sent his coordinates.  He set it on the table, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Goodwyn.

         “This is Detective Goodwyn.”
         “Goody, it’s Stryker.”
         “Oh, hey.  Did you get the coordinates?”
         “Yeah, but there’s something else.”
         “What is it?  Are you all right?”
         “I just got an email from the Scourge.”
         “From the Scourge?  C’mon, he’s dead.  You saw him flat line as clearly as I did last night.”
         “I know, but there’s something about this.  He included one of his little riddles.”
         “Hey, I know it must hard.  I can’t imagine what you’re going through; what hatred you’re feeling.  But you don’t need to worry.  It’s probably just a copycat.”

         “Yeah man, you’re probably right.  Thanks for your support.”
         “No problem.  Now come on down here and help me figure this out.  You’re better at crime scenes than I am.”
         “All right.  I’ll be right there.”
         Stryker hung up the phone and put it in his pocket along with his PDA.  He figured that Goodwyn was probably right, but there was something about this email that made him believe that this was no copycat.  Stryker decided not to dwell on it.  Besides, he had a crime scene to get to and the clock was ticking.

Chapter 2

No Point In Living

         
         The breeze blew through Stryker’s hair and the sun shined bright as he drove in his T-Top Mustang.  Since he took a few back roads around the city to get to where Goodwyn was, he was essentially alone with his thoughts.  He remembered Goodwyn commenting on how he couldn’t imagine what he went through; he had no idea.  He remembered it like it was yesterday; the stabbing pain in his stomach, his heart, and his soul.  The dreams, the counseling, the anger.  So much had that one tragic event affected him…

         ...Being the exceptional LAPD detective that he was, Shane Stryker had all the perks: a nice house, great cars, expensive vacations; he was living in the riches.  After a long day of work, he pulled up to his house.  He had been so busy that he had very little time to spend with his wife.  He was investigating a serial killer who called himself “The Scourge of Justice.”  He had committed 11 murders at that point, whose victims seemingly had no connection, save the riddles at the scene of the crime.

He questioned the victims’ families and friends but had no luck in making a connection between the 11.  He made a vow to himself that he would spend more time with the love of his life.  He would put his partner Goody on the case full time and take a long, much needed vacation.  He walked up to his house to find that the front door was unlocked, which was unusual, considering that his wife would always lock up.

         “Honey, I’m home,” he called out.  “Hello?”
         Something felt unusual on this night; some type of eeriness filled the house.  It was too still and quiet to be a normal night.  He tried to put his fears aside and continued to think to himself that his wife was just out of the house. 
         “She was in a hurry,” he thought.  “That’s why the door was unlocked.”

         But being the investigator he was, he knew that was not the case.  He walked through the house as silently as he could, keeping his ears open for any sound: nothing. 
         “Terri?! Baby, you home?”
         He was starting to feel the butterflies in his stomach.  He walked through the family room and into the living room. 
         “Terri? Terri, you here?” he shouted, looking around the room.  There was no sign of her.  He walked out of the room, across the family room, and into the master bedroom.  He saw Terri lying on the floor, not a breathe in her lungs.

         “No!!!!” he cried.  He ran to her and lifted her into his arms, her blood soaking his shirt.  “Why!?!?!?!” he cried out.  His tears drenched his shirt and her limp, lifeless body.  He sobbed so hard that he could not breathe nor see.  He did not want to live anymore; how could he, with his life already stolen from him.  His heart and his soul, being once blazon objects of happiness and joy, were now destroyed.

He let go of her and crawled to the phone, crying the whole way to it.  He called 911 and told them of his situation through his yelps and moans.  After hanging up the phone, he stood and tried to balance himself.  He waddled back into the room where something caught his eye.  On the wall, written in blood, was the Spanish translation of “The Scourge of Justice.”  Upon seeing this, his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed.

Chapter 3

Truth Revealed

         
         When Stryker awoke, he was in a hospital bed with an IV in his arm and a cannula in his nose.  He felt dizzy and disoriented.  He remembered having a dream; no, a nightmare.  His wife had been killed.  But as he came to, he remembered being taken to the hospital in an ambulance, and his wife being put into a body bag.  It was no dream, but a horrid reality.

He started crying, as a dog howls at the moon.  He felt his stomach start to turn suddenly.  He ripped out the IV and the oxygen tube and hobbled to the bathroom.  But he didn’t make it; his vomit splattered all over the floor.  His vomit tasted of blood and, as he opened his eyes, he realized that’s what it was.  There was more blood than there was stomach acid on the floor.  Suddenly, he was overcome with dizziness and collapsed.  He awoke in his hospital bed again to the sounds of voices speaking in whispers.  He opened his eyes and saw Goodwyn and a nurse talking.  The nurse looked over and saw that he was awake.

         “How are you feeling, sir?” the nurse questioned.
         “Are you serious?  How am I feeling?  Like a million bucks.”
         “Can you leave us for a minute, please?” Goodwyn questioned.  The nurse left the room, closing the door behind her.
         “Hey pal,” Goodwyn offered.
         “Hey Goody,” Stryker replied.  He sat silent for a moment.  “Why wasn’t I there to save her?”
         “Hey man, don’t beat yourself up.  There was nothing you could have done.”
         “Bullshit.  It was the Scourge.  He killed my family, Goody.  He destroyed my life.  I’m going to make him pay.”
         “It’s already over, Shane.  We got him.”

         “What?  How did you get him overnight?”
         “Overnight?  Man, you’ve been in here for a week.”
         “A whole week?  You’ve got to be kidding me!”
         “No, it’s the truth.  You were in a temporary coma.”
         “But how’d you get him?  I don’t understand.”
         “Well, I investigated the crime scene and-”
         “My house, you mean?”

         “Yeah, and I saw that on the wall it said “El látigo de justicia,” which made clear that it was him, and I figured out the riddle in the living room.”
         “Wait, the living room?  I didn’t see any riddle.”
         “Well, it was right there on the wall, and I was able to crack it.”
         “What’d the riddle say?”
         “It said:”

         12 are gone, 2 more to go,
         Destroyed by neither friend nor foe.
         It will all be over soon,
         The end reveals the real goon.
         Justice: unfair to everyone,
         True justice found when this is done.

         “How can I have been so dumb?  I know the connection!” Stryker proposed.
         “I said the same thing.  I remember you telling me of how Terri was called to jury duty, so I crossed her with the other 11 victims and-”
         “Found that he killed an entire jury panel.  Damn!  Why couldn’t I have made the connection before Terri-”
         He couldn’t go on.  He started to cry.  His friend comforted him while he wept over his lost love.  When he had extinguished all of his tears, he guessed what his friend did next.

         “The Scourge unwillingly gave himself up when he told us that there were two to go.  He never spoke of numbers in the previous riddles, which is why connections weren’t easily made.  The last two he spoke of were probably the judge and the prosecuting attorney.  Am I right?”
         “You’re hitting the bull’s eye.”
         “Okay.  So, to catch him, you left the judge and the attorney at their homes but fully guarded.  And when he showed up at one of their homes, you caught him.”
         “Yep, you hit the nail on the head.”
         “But what was the case Terri was a juror for?”

         “Well, it was a robbery-homicide case involving Calvin Kretz.  His brother is the Scourge, whose true name is Malcolm Kretz.”
         “So, Calvin got indicted and Malcolm was angry?”
         “It was Calvin’s third strike and Malcolm claimed that he knew Calvin was innocent and that he had proof.  The judge said that he should have brought it to the defense attorney during the case, not after.  Calvin got sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.”
         “That is why he always speaks against justice.  He feels that his brother did not have justice.”
         “Exactly.”

         Stryker felt a new youthful energy in him.  Even through his terrible tragedy, he felt he had one last life goal.
         “I’m going to make sure myself that this guy gets the death penalty.  I want to see him die.”
         “Wait a minute, you’re going to make sure yourself?  Is your J.D. still valid??”
         “Of course.  I want to prosecute this guy myself.  When I was a lawyer, I never lost a case, and I don’t plan to lose this one.”

Chapter 4

Scene Of The Crime

         
         Stryker was brought out of his daydream when he came upon Goodwyn’s coordinates.  Sure enough, there he was.  He and Goodwyn had been partners since they were both rookies.  When they were rookies, the more seasoned officers joked with them by calling them “Good-Stryk.”

But when they broke their first big case in a matter of three days, they earned their respect and were not known as “Good-Stryk” from then on.  Stryker parked about 100 yards from the crime scene and headed towards Goodwyn.  The place was barren, a rarity in Los Angeles.  As Stryker got closer to where Goodwyn was, he noticed that there was another man at the crime scene.

         “Ah, great,” Stryker whispered to himself.  “I knew the feds would show.”
         Goodwyn hurried up to meet Stryker before he got to the federal agent. 
         “You know how I hate the feds, Goody.”
         “I know Shane.  There’s nothing I can do though.  They’ve got jurisdiction everywhere!”
         “I know, I know.  I’m sure you did what you could.”
         Stryker walked right past the agent and up to the coroner’s car.  He crouched and started to look it over.  The agent approached him.

         “I’m Agent Christian Sansburry, FBI,” the agent droned.  “You must be Shane Stryker.”
         Stryker looked up at him, squinting in the sun.  “Yeah, hi,” he said mechanically.
         Stryker went back to looking over the car, while Agent Sansburry stood watching over him.  He looked up again.
         “Did you need something in particular?  You’re kind of in my light,” Stryker joked.  Goodwyn cracked a smile.
         Agent Sansburry grabbed Stryker up by the collar and pulled him to his face.
         “Listen pal, I don’t want any lip from you, all right?  Being the Agent-In-Charge of this investigation, I would like you to answer to me, understood?”

         “Until I see an LAPD badge on you, I’ll do as I damn well please.  Now, if you don’t get your hands off of me, there’s going to be yet another case that will need investigation.”
         Goodwyn intervened and pulled them apart.  “Hey, hey, knock it off guys!  We’re all on the same side here.”
         Sansburry let Stryker go, telling him to watch his mouth.
         Stryker scanned the entire scene: the car, surrounding foliage, the ground, you name it.  The first thing he noticed were the chalk marks on the ground.
         “Hey Goody, when did they take the bodies?”
         “Um, just a little bit before I called you up.”
         Stryker continued to scan the scene and reviewed his notes thus far:

Blood stains on driver’s and passenger’s front seats
Chalk marks drawn outside the vehicle (why wouldn’t killers leave bodies in car?)
Back window broken out; glass on ground, not in cargo area

         Stryker had a crazy hunch about what was going on.  From the data he had acquired from the scene, it all added up, but it would seem far-fetched to Goodwyn.  Stryker told Goodwyn that he’d be right back and headed for his car.  From there, he called Goodwyn on his cell phone.
         “Stryker, what the hell are you doing?  This is no time to play around,” Goodwyn whispered.
         “I’m not playing around.  I just don’t want Agent Sans-whatever to hear our conversation.  Make this conversation one-sided, would you?”
         “Yes, sir, he did finally show up.”

         “That’s better.  Okay, I want you to meet me back at my apartment, but first tell the fed that we’re going to the station to see what the Chief wants and that we’ll meet up with him later.”
         “Got it, Chief.  We’ll be there in a sec.”  Goodwyn hung up.  “It was the Chief,” he told Sansburry.  “We’ve got to go down to the station to see what’s up.  We’ll meet up with you later.”
         “Okay,” Sansburry replied.  They exchanged numbers as Stryker walked up to them.
         “Guys, it’s just as I thought.  I just called in the plate numbers, and it turns out this isn’t the coroner’s car,” Stryker lied.

         “How can that be?  We saw the coroner and his aid’s bodies get taken away,” Sansburry asked.
         “Let’s go to the morgue and double check the bodies,” Stryker offered.
         “Stryker, we can’t,” Goodwyn chimed in on their little scheme.  “The Chief just called in and said we have to go see him.”
         “Hey, don’t worry fellas, I’ll go look into it myself.  We’ll meet up in a few.”
         “Okay, thanks,” Stryker said.
         Stryker and Goodwyn drove to the apartment in their separate cars.  When they got there, they stood outside as Stryker told Goodwyn of his hunch.
         “It’s undeniably true Goody.  I know it.”
         “Shane, we’ve gone over this.  It was just a copycat, that’s all.  You’re acting crazy.”
         Stryker showed Goodwyn his notebook.

         “So what?  Your theory is easily disprovable,” Goodwyn said.  “The guys who stole Kretz’s body staged the crime scene so that you would think that he was still alive.  But we know that he’s not; we saw him die last night.  He can’t just come alive on his way to the morgue.”
         “Yeah, but I just can’t figure out why someone would go through all this trouble just to make me think he was alive.”

         “Probably a few of his old friends trying to scare you.  You did prosecute him, you know.  He got the death penalty, like you wanted, and now he’s dead.”
         Stryker shook his head and started to sob.  His friend patted him on the back.  “It’s all right pal.  It’s okay.”
         Stryker quickly dried his eyes, not wanting his friend to see that he was crying.  Before, he didn’t care if his emotions were displayed in public.  But, after the counseling, he wanted to be brave.  He had it planted in his head that he was brave and strong and would get over his family’s death.

Apparently, he was trying to be strong and brave, but still hadn’t gotten over his tragedy.  They walked up to Stryker’s apartment, upon which they noticed that the door was ajar.  He motioned for Goodwyn to come over and, after they charged in, they saw why the door was ajar: the place had been ransacked.

Chapter 5

A Bloody Mess

         
         Stryker’s face was in a state of horror; his place was a mess.  Almost everything was flipped, toppled over, or broken.  Worse yet, there was blood all over the walls.  “The Scourge of Justice” was written on the walls along with swastikas and other hate symbols.
         “Damn, the Scourge’s friends again,” Goodwyn said.  “These guys are sick.”
         Stryker looked around his apartment cautiously, making sure that no one was still there.
         “Where did all this blood come from?” Goodwyn thought out loud.

As his friend said this, Stryker walked into the bathroom and discovered the source of the blood.  He saw a slain jackrabbit floating in the toilet along with a bloody pair of latex gloves.  A hot, acrid stench filled Stryker’s nostrils.  He looked down at his feet; they were surrounded by water.  The bathroom had been flooded when someone foolishly attempted to flush the carcass of the rabbit.

         “Oh man,” Stryker uttered, backing away from the horrific site.
         “What is it?”
         “I found out where all this blood came from.”
         Goodwyn went to where Stryker was and saw the nauseating scene.  They were both thoroughly disgusted and decided to go into the living room. 
         “Well, should we dust?” Goodwyn suggested.
         “Yeah.  You start on this side and we’ll meet in the middle.”
         They got their supplies from their cars and started dusting.  After two hours of dusting every nook and cranny of the apartment, they didn’t surface one single print.

         “Well,” Goodwyn began.  “That was a total waste of time.”
         They were both tired and exhausted and were putting their tools away when a light came on in Stryker’s head.
         “Hold on a second, Goody.”
         Stryker hustled into his apartment with his tool kit; he motioned for Goodwyn to follow.  Stryker led Goodwyn into the bathroom where the jackrabbit carcass was still rotting.
         “Ah-ha, just as I suspected.  Notice the gloves?  They are clearly bloody.  Now check out the handle; there is no blood on it.  Tell me, could someone have flushed this toilet with bloody gloves on?”
         “No, they must’ve had the gloves off.”
         Goodwyn looked over at Stryker in excitement.

         “Exactly,” Stryker finished.
         He took out his kit and began to dust the handle.  Before their eyes, a set of prints became visible: an index finger and a middle finger.  They were both smiling at the discovery.  Stryker lifted the prints and headed for his Mustang, with Goodwyn in following.  In it, he had an optical scanner.
         “Goody, call the lab for me, will you?  Tell them I’m about to send over two prints.
         Goodwyn complied with Stryker’s orders and informed the lab of their situation.
         “Get back to us A.S.A.P.  Thank you.”
         Stryker had the scanner up and going. 
         “Good to go,” Goodwyn informed.

         Stryker put the prints on the scanner, selected the optical scan option, and sent them over to the lab.
         “All right, we’re good to go.”
         They both went back into the apartment and attempted to clean up.  They picked the desk back up, cleaned broken glass, and disposed of the dead animal.  When they had practically finished cleaning, Stryker found his laptop; it was covered with a bloody glove print.  Curiosity getting the best of him, Stryker opened his laptop.  He saw that the majority of the keys were bloody.  Looking at the screen, he noticed a block of text: a riddle.
         “Goody, come here quick.  I found the Scourge’s riddle.”
         Stryker read it aloud:

         Still 2 more left to go,
         I’m sure that you already know.
         Once my ambitious task is complete,
         Justice will be laid at my feet.
         To give you a little jump-start nudge,
         Who will be next?  You be the judge.

         As Stryker read the last line, he felt chills creep up his spine.  He looked up at Goodwyn, who had mutual feelings.
         “He’s going after the judge! And we spent this whole time dusting for prints!”
         They ran to the mustang, hopped in, and sped off.  As they left the neighborhood, Goodwyn called LAPD headquarters to get the address of the judge.

Chapter 6

Another Victim

         
         “Okay,” Goodwyn started.  “The judge’s address is 2233 Hembridge.”
         “Okay, I know how to get there.  What’s the judge’s profile?”
         “Caucasian male, in his late-40s, 5’11”, about 230 pounds.”
         “You called for back up too, right?” Stryker questioned.
         “Yeah, everything’s good to go.”

         Stryker had an itching feeling inside him.  He couldn’t help to think that they were too late to save the judge; about two hours late, actually.  When they had arrived at Stryker’s apartment, the sun was just beginning to set.  Now it was the evening, with a bright full moon and taillights shining.  Stryker got off the freeway, not bothering to slow down when he reached the off ramp.  He went through the neighborhood in which the judge’s house was located and pulled up to the house simultaneously with a squad car.  They all got out and met up with each other.

         “Okay guys, here’s what we need you to do,” Stryker started.  “Try to secure the perimeter as best as you can.  We’re looking for a Caucasian male in his 40s, about 5’11”, 230 pounds.  Got it?”
         The two officers from the squad car complied and went off to do as they were told.  Stryker and Goodwyn approached the house with utmost caution, keeping their eyes and ears open.  Approaching the dark front porch, they each brought out a flashlight.  They knocked on the door and received no answer.  Stryker looked through the window and saw the feet and legs of someone lying on the ground.

         “That’s enough probable cause for me,” Stryker whispered.
         They removed their guns from their holsters and kicked down the door shouting “LAPD!”  They moved swiftly but cautiously throughout the house.  The two detectives searched the entire house finding only the body of the judge; he fit Goodwyn’s description.

         “Damn it!” Stryker hollered.  “I knew we would be too late.”
         Goodwyn flicked on the lights and called the two officers over.  They did the chalking and called in more backup.  Stryker and Goodwyn went searching about the house.  The Scourge always left a riddle at every murder scene.  Goodwyn yelled to Stryker, telling him that he had found the riddle.  He went over to him and read it:

         It’s almost over, almost done,
         Sadly all this is not much fun.
         I thought revenge would be oh so sweet,
         Now it just seems like a deadline I must meet.
         When this all is done, there will be many cries,
         Justice then dealt, the hurt then felt,
         When the prosecuting attorney dies.

         After reading it, the two stood there for a while, trying to take in any clues that may have been evident.
         “Well, we know who his next target is: his brother’s prosecuting attorney.  I’m guessing what we’ll do next?” Goodwyn offered.
         “Call the chief.  Tell him to set up a stakeout at the prosecuting attorney’s residence.  This will be the end of the Kretz’s cases for good.”

         They left the house and the two officers, who said that they would be able to watch the place on their own.  On the half hour drive to the prosecuting attorney’s house, Goodwyn called up the Chief and told him to get a team ready like they had years before.  They were going to catch this guy again, in the same fashion as before.  Without warning, Stryker’s cell phone rang.
         “Stryker,” he answered.

         “Detective Stryker, this is Morris from the crime lab, we got a match on the prints you sent in.  They belong to a Malcolm Kretz.  I’m not sure where you got these prints, but his profile says that he is deceased.  Are you sure-”
         “Thanks,” Stryker uttered, hanging the phone up.  That was all the evidence he needed.
         “Who was that?” Goodwyn asked.
         “It was the crime lab.  The prints came back, and they belong to Malcolm Kretz.”
         Stryker looked over at Goodwyn, who was looking back in disbelief.
         “There’s a reasonable explanation for this.  I’m sure that-”
         “Enough, man!  This is all too coincidental for it to be a prank.  Kretz is still alive and he’s out there.  I have no clue how, and I’m just as puzzled as you, but enough of this.  We need to accept the fact that he’s still alive and do something about it.”

         For the remainder of the trip, they were both silent, mulling over the events of the day.  When they had finally arrived, everyone was set and ready to catch this killer.  Everyone had driven in civilian cars, knowing that a mass of squad cars would give their plan away.  Goodwyn and Stryker parked on the street behind the one they were to stakeout, and walked all the way around to where the Chief and the team were inconspicuously located.

         “Chief, thanks for dispatching so quickly,” Stryker commented.
         “No problem.  We’re set and ready to catch this killer twice and for all,” the Chief replied.
         As the three chuckled at the Chief’s comment, Agent Sansburry approached them.
         “Uh-oh,” Stryker mumbled.
         Sansburry walked up casually but with authority.  He looked more humbled and earnest then he did angry.
         “Detective Goodwyn, Detective Stryker, how are things?” he said somewhat sarcastically.
         “Just fine,” Goodwyn said hesitantly.  “How were the bodies?”
         “Oh, come on, don’t give me that.  I never went to check the bodies.  I knew you guys were screwing with me from the start.”

         Stryker was startled at what he heard.  “Then why did you go along with it?”
         “So I wouldn’t have to tag along with you guys all day.  I went and did some investigating of my own.  I went to the prison and asked about Kretz’s “last supper.”  They told me he got the “special” from some deli he liked.  I went and checked it out and it turns out that they had developed some counteragent to the poisons used in a lethal injection, which neutralized the poisons.  The counteragent also has an added affect: it makes you appear dead for anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour.  This counteragent, known as “Phoenix,” was in Kretz’s last supper.  I have no idea how it works, but apparently it does.”

         All three of them stood there in shock, jaws hanging.
         No kidding?” the Chief asked.  “That’s amazing.”
         “Yeah, it’s crazy what stuff they come up with on the street.  I arrested the guy and sent him down to the field office for interrogation.”
         “Excellent work.  I’m glad we’ve got that fiasco figured out.  Although I can’t say I understand it completely, though.  But, before we try to figure that all out, we should concentrate on the task at hand.  First order of business: Stryker?”

         “Yes, sir?”
         “I want you to go home and relax.  I know this entire process, this entire case, has been hard on you.  Let us take care of this while you go home and rest yourself.  This will all be over once we’re done here.”
         “But, sir, I don’t believe that’s fair.”
         “I’m not asking for your opinion on what you think is fair, Stryker, I’m simply telling you to let us handle this.” The Chief said, smiling.  “You’ve been working on this all day, for all these years, now go home and get some rest.”
         “But, sir, I-”
         “Go, Stryker, that’s an order.”
         “I just-”

         “Enough!  Do as I say and go home!  That‘s an order!”
         The two were beginning to steam as an argument erupted.
         “Damn it, Chief, I just want to finish it!”
         “That’s it!  Unless you want to be suspended, go home!  I can’t have you here, can’t you see?  You’re a threat!  We want to get this guy alive and I’m afraid that you might open fire on him!”
         “Hell yeah, I’ll open fire!  He killed my family, Chief!  Did he kill yours?”
         A few officers came over and began to carry Stryker away from the Chief.

         “Did you have to see your wife’s lifeless body drenched in blood because some psycho was upset about his brother going to jail?  Huh?!”
         The officers hadn’t carried Stryker more than 30 yards when he made them let him go.  He walked to his car, cursing the whole way.  He began to jog to his car for no reason at all, the adrenaline pumping through his veins.  Before he reached the end of the street, he started to run.  When he came upon the street on which his car was parked, he went into a full out sprint.  When he got to his car, he was out of breath and panting loudly.  He got in, slammed the door behind him, and started the car.

While his car was running, he thought about what had just happened.  He thought about his yelling at his Chief, the threat about his being suspended, his wife, his hope and dreams… Stryker began to sob.  He put his car into gear and sped off.  He got onto the freeway and started crying.  He floored his Mustang and got up to 80 mph.  He hit 90...95...100.  He continued to accelerate and cry, the tears blurring his vision.

He didn’t care; he had nothing to live for and nothing to lose.  Even after all of these years, the death of his family still haunted him like it was reoccurring every day.  After only 15 minutes, Stryker was home.  He got out of the Mustang, went into his freshly cleaned apartment, and sat down.  After sitting for a minute, he went and got a beer, and then turned on the television.

Chapter 7

It’s All Over

         
         Stryker sat watching the television and sipping his beer.  Even though he had been home for half an hour, he was still on his first beer.  He did not like to get drunk, but then decided that there was nothing better to do.  He went and got another.  He continued to dwell on what had happened with the Chief.  He remembered the entire scene: the officers taking him away, the Chief’s angered face, Goodwyn’s pitiful look…he regretted it all.

And yet he still felt that he was right.  He should have been allowed to be there to take Kretz down.  He had done it before, just not on the street.  He, of all people, should have been the one that ran in and tackled Kretz before he could kill his final victim.  Stryker decided that he had to apologize, to ensure that his job was not in jeopardy.  He took the cell phone and the PDA out of his pocket.  He almost dropped them both when he was startled by his PDA.  It started beeping, indicating that he had mail.

         “Who can that be,” Stryker muttered.
         Oddly, he got a chill down the back of his neck all the way to the base of his spine.  Thinking nothing of it, he shook it off and put the cell phone on the table between him and the television.  He got up and went over to his laptop, which still had the bloody handprint on it.  Stryker washed it off, careful not to damage any of the precious components.

When he was through, he set it back on the table and accessed his email account.  There was one new email.  The sender was “Anonymous” while the subject line read “Urgent Message.”  He clicked on the hyperlink on the subject line and opened the message.  He was shocked.  Once again, when he thought it was over, it was actually just beginning.  The message read:

         Stryker, why are you all alone?  I need to get my own revenge, too.  Which prosecuting attorney did you think I was talking about?

         Stryker felt every hair on his body stand up, from the back of his neck to his ankles.
         “Oh no!” Stryker shouted.
         He grabbed the phone on the desk next to his laptop quickly and dialed Goodwyn.
         “Goodwyn here.”
         “Goody, it’s me, Stryker.  No time to explain.  Listen to me.  I’m the prosecuting attorney.”
         “What?  What do you mean?”
         “Okay, remember-”
         Before he could finish, the line went dead.
         “Damn!!!” Stryker yelled.

         He ran to his cell phone, which read “out of service.”  Just as he ran out of ideas, his power went out.  Television, lights, everything.  Stryker slowly reached for his gun, which was on the table next to his beer.  He crouched as low as he could, trying to be absolutely quiet.
         “So this is how it ends,” Stryker said to himself.  He was fully aware of his surroundings and was looking and listening for anything that would give away Kretz’s location in the apartment.  Even though it was absolutely quite in the apartment, Stryker felt as if the silence was actually at a factor of many decibels.  Stryker was trying to think of which side of the couch to go on.  There were many places that Kretz could hide out at.  Even though it was just an apartment, it was still very spacey.

If there were not others sharing walls with him, he would call it a house.  Stryker, trying not to be nervous, shakily removed his flashlight from his belt, readying it for use.  He began to move, slowly and crouching, towards the kitchen area.  He got down in front the bar, trying not to disturb the barstools.  There he waited, keeping his senses at full alert.  By the way his heart was beating, he was sure that it could be heard a mile away.  After what seemed like a lifetime, he heard the first signs of his enemy.  Adrenaline pumped through him, but he did his best not to get worked up.  He thought he heard breathing, but he was not sure.

He got up a little to hear better, and then suddenly realized that it was not a good idea.  He heard breathing directly above his head.  When he heard this, he immediately froze and held his breath.  Kretz was in the kitchen looking slightly over the bar.  Stryker figured that it was dark enough for him to go unnoticed in the position he was in, so he held it as strong as he could.  He heard Kretz shuffle a little, yet he still maintained his position.  Stryker’s legs were growing tired, but he knew that relaxing his legs would mean his demise.  But, he was growing too tired after the tedious day.  He wouldn’t be able to hold himself in that position any longer.  With adrenaline almost completely replacing his blood, he decided to go into action.

         “It’s go time,” he thought.  Clicking his flashlight on, he turned and stood up.  He fired two shots right into Kretz’s chest.  Kretz fell so fast that Stryker didn’t have any time to see his face.  After Kretz fell, he quickly jumped over the bar and shined the light into Kretz’s face, making sure he was dead.  To his horror, Stryker realized that it was not Kretz.  He thought fast and quickly jumped back over the bar, just in time to hear shots being fired at him. 
         “Stryker, buddy, how’s it hanging?”  Kretz chuckled.
         “Just dandy, how about you?” Stryker replied.

         As Kretz went on about nothing, Stryker scurried across the room and shot in Kretz’s direction.  Stryker’s eyes had totally adjusted to the dark so he clicked off the flashlight and set it down. 
         “Now that’s not nice, Stryker!  I was only trying to talk.  Can’t we just be friends?”
         “What’s your game, Kretz?  Why don’t you get it over with?”
         “Oh I will, pal.  I will.  But first I want you to know a few things.  Don’t you want to know how I lived?  You watched me die, didn’t you?”

         “Yeah, it was Phoenix that kept you alive.”
         “Aahhh, you guys always spoil all of the fun,” Kretz commented, chuckling.
         With that, Kretz ran across the hall shooting, obviously trying to get a better angle on Stryker.  Stryker was now by his closet door, while Kretz was in the kitchen.
         They both had one gun each.  With that thought, Stryker got an idea.
         “Hey Kretz, who was that poor guy that you got killed?”
         “Oh, some transient I found out on the street.  I didn’t even catch his name.  I told him that I’d pay him $500 if he helped me out,” Kretz chuckled.

         While Kretz continued to talk about the nameless man, Stryker got into his closet and got his magnums.  He had two of them: silver with black grips.  He holstered his other gun, putting it in place as a back up.  Stryker now had an advantage over Kretz.  But, as Stryker got out of the closet, he noticed that Kretz had not been talking for a while.  He looked up and there he was; Kretz with his semi-automatic pistol.  He could barely make him out, being as dark as it was.

         “Hey, I told you I’d get it over with.  Drop those things and lay down in the hallway.”
         Stryker did as he was told, but was astonished that Kretz had not taken his original gun.  Stryker was lying on his stomach with his hands behind his head when Kretz came up to him.  He stood practically right above him, but about six inches from his feet.
         “Now,” Kretz started.  “My justice has finally come.  After all this time, my patience has finally paid off.  I will receive my true justice.”
         As Kretz said this, there was a noise outside the front door.  Kretz raised the gun to the door.  After a second, the door was kicked in and Goodwyn came running in, followed by SWAT. 
         “LAPD, put down-”

         Before Goodwyn could finish, Kretz put two bullets in his chest, which was protected by only thin body armor.  Stryker seized his chance.  He spun onto his back, pulled out his gun, and aimed it up at Kretz.  He fired repeatedly, every shot slamming hard into his chest, making him collapse backwards.  Stryker continued to fire until the entire clip was exhausted.  He then stood, with SWAT rushing in behind him.  They started to ask questions until Stryker yelled out:

         “The area is secure!  Go tend to Goodwyn!”  They did as ordered.  Stryker crouched over Kretz’s body, lifeless and riddled with bullets.
         “There is no such thing as true justice” he thought.  “There is no such thing as revenge.  There is only the idea that all wrongs will end up being debited to those who commit them.”
         And with that, Stryker got up and went to Goodwyn’s side, while they put him on the stretcher; while they loaded him into the ambulance; while they took him to the hospital.  Stryker couldn’t save the life of the one he’d loved in the past, so he was going to be sure that, if Goodwyn needed him, he was going to be there.