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  Broken Justice

  T. J. Warsha

  Copyright © 2021 T. J. Warsha

  All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the author’s explicit permission in writing.

  Contact: [email protected]

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter One

  The guest, who was a regular visitor, found a vacant spot in the car park at the Capital District Psychiatric Hospital and walked into the building, confident and assured. As usual, she headed straight up to the second floor, to Room 218. In one hand she held a small basket of cherries, her sister, Rachel’s, favorite fruit. Or at least it had been once. Nothing, it seemed, generated much excitement in Rachel in recent years.

  She took the stairs, ignoring the nearby elevator. Stepping into the hallway she sensed something was wrong. Chaos reigned over the corridor, and not a single nurse was visible behind the reception desk. Skin prickling, her heart began to pound. She quickened her pace, eyes darting, seeking the source of the trouble. Suddenly she froze. At the end of the hall, at the door to Rachel’s room, there was a commotion of doctors and nurses. One of the nurses, Roberta, hurried over, a terrified expression distorting her normally placid features.

  The guest stood absolutely still. Unnoticed, the basket of cherries slipped and fell with a dull thump to the floor, scattering everywhere. Some of the small red globes were immediately squashed under hurrying feet, squirting blood red juice across the polished floor, as if in random brushstrokes.

  “What’s going on? Has something happened? Has she done something to herself?” The words had barely emerged before Roberta was standing beside her.

  “Come with me, let’s sit down a moment. I’ll take you to my office.” Roberta held her elbow, but the woman brushed the nurse’s hand away.

  “What’s happened? Tell me at once. I demand to know what happened,” she whispered furiously, and set off determinedly toward Rachel’s room.

  “No, no, don’t go in there, you really don’t want to do that … don’t let her in,” Roberta called at the other nurses clustered around Rachel’s door. “She’s coming! Stop her!”

  Two nurses blocked the way. One of them, the chief nurse, Henrietta, a heavyset, sturdy woman wearing a white gown, hair bundled, face flushed and eyes brimming with tears, reached out and took hold of the visitor.

  “Don’t go in there, dear. There’s nothing for you to do in there. I’m so sorry …”

  Struggling to free herself from Henrietta’s grip, the woman’s strength suddenly betrayed her, the blood running cold in her veins, and an overwhelming fatigue engulfed her. Again she flailed desperately, trying to push Henrietta away—to gain access to Rachel despite everything they were saying, to see with her own eyes. But Henrietta was much more powerful.

  “She’s dead … I couldn’t keep her safe. Our beauty is gone … she’s dead.”

  She couldn’t remember ever screaming before. Now, terrible shrieking sounds emerged. The sound, deafeningly intense, echoed along the corridor and through the ward. It was a ward that was accustomed to horrific sights and moments of extreme human drama, whose walls had already witnessed all the sadness in the world.

  The woman cried and howled and screamed until she could scream no more.

  Chapter Two

  Joey tiptoed slowly, quietly into his father’s empty room. Harry Mitchel was asleep on the porch, an old, faded, flat cap across his eyes. He had yielded to the warmth of the sun and the chirping of the birds at noontime.

  Joey crossed the floor, his steps as silent as he could make them. He approached the dresser where he knew the keys of Harry’s vehicle rested in a coconut bowl. It was a white Jeep, worn with use, but definitely well-preserved. A moment before picking up the keys, Joey listened hard, making sure his father was still asleep. A contented smile tugged at the corners of Joey’s mouth and, in an unconscious motion, he smoothed back his black, unruly hair. He held his breath and carefully picked up the keys. Instantly, a barrage of barking, horribly loud in the stillness of the day, broke out from somewhere in the room. Joey jerked back in panic. The barking went on, but Joey couldn’t see the source until his eyes fell on the small speaker. He turned to look at his father, who hadn’t moved and still appeared to be drowsing.

  That he wasn’t became obvious as he muttered, “You know the Jeep’s off-limits, Joey. Now get out and let me get some sleep.”

  Joey left the room, cursing under his breath. He realized his dad had recorded his dog Clint barking. Oh, come on! Joey stopped in his tracks. His stomach grumbled. He shoved the earphones that dangled down his neck back into his ears, put on the new Bob Sinclair, and turned toward the hotel kitchen. He wondered what tea-time snacks Melanie had made for the guests whose weekend vacation was about to come to an end.

  The Everlasting Peace hotel was situated in the heart of a forest clearing, surrounded by tall trees, far from any human settlement and an hour’s drive from the nearest town of Chiswick. Despite its somewhat inadequate name, it was considered to be a decidedly classy establishment of the highest degree. Its owners, the Gershwins, a couple in their fifties, ran it with devotion bordering on love. They were strict and meticulous, and spared no expense in making their guests comfortable. The hotel was small, containing only sixteen identical rooms; all furnished with wide, king-sized beds bearing mattresses that were soft and pampering, yet with just the right degree of firmness. There was silky bedding, thick duvets that guaranteed a good night’s sleep, a tub scrubbed spotlessly clean, a small refrigerator full of delicacies, and a narrow balcony just large enough to allow guests to enjoy the forest views at dusk, or the moments when the first rays of sunlight peeked from behind the tops of the trees.

  It was a requirement of the hotel that all guests had to deposit at the reception desk their cell phones, laptops, and any other electronic devices that could be used to communicate with the outside world, when they checked in. They only got them back when they checked out and left. Over time, this rule had become one of the hotel’s main attractions.

  The hotel grounds encouraged social activities. The wide grass lawns were bordered by thick-foliaged trees. The swimming pool, the calm surface resembling a clear-blue mirror, was surrounded by outdoor recliners and parasols. The lobby was dotted with cushy couches. An oak wood library, packed with books on travel, art and various titles, stood off to one side, and on the other side was the bar. This was personally tended by George Gershwin, who relished every opportunity to chat with his guests over a drink. His wife, Dorothy, on the other hand—called Dotty by everyone and even introducing herself as such—was forever on the move. She would always find places to go and things to do. She was known for her indefatigable ways and ability to multitask; simultaneously planning the evening menu, supervising the new receptionist, checking orders, taking care of marketing, brushing stubborn dust motes from a window, and making sure the background music was just right. Dotty and George were amicable, welcoming, and hospitable. Their past, however, was a mystery to their guests. No one knew where they had come from, or what they had done before they had settled into their little corner of heaven in the heart of the forest.

  Of the sixteen rooms, one was regularly occupied by Harry and Joey. Harry was sixty-six years old. He had a full head of golden hair streaked with white at the temples, and bright-blue, penetrating eyes. He was sharp-witted, but his reactions were slow. Three years before, when his wife Olivia had died, he had clung to
the hope that his work would help him overcome the loss. But when the first investigation after Olivia’s death had failed miserably—he had managed to lose the prime suspect in a robbery—he had decided to hang up his badge and retire from the force. He left the apartment he’d shared with his wife, donated all their clothes and furniture to charity, packed a single suitcase, and along with Joey, who had been only fourteen back then, and with a large bag of marijuana (prescribed as treatment for his depression), Harry accepted the invitation of the Gershwins, who owed him an old favor, to come and rest at their hotel.

  The days passed into weeks, then months, and then years, and Harry had become comfortably addicted to the hotel’s tranquil atmosphere and he settled into the easy passing of time. He had almost forgotten the long hours and tiring routines that had filled most of his adult life—looking for suspects, investigating and questioning criminals, and of course dealing with internal police politics, a wrinkle of the job he had always hated and never been able to get used to.

  Now and then, Harry would take on a private investigation. Word that a former senior police detective was living in the hotel had gotten round and brought in the occasional client. He took those jobs mainly to keep his mind and body fit. But he was always glad to get back to his balcony, the outdoor recliner, and the herb vaporizer he had recently purchased which allowed him to comfortably smoke the marijuana without generating any smoke, hardly any smell, and zero unwanted questions. The habit gave him great comfort. So much so, he was now unable to fall asleep at nights without it.

  Joey’s attempt to take the Jeep amused Harry, who was aware he’d chosen an unusual habitat for his son, and that life in a secluded hotel wasn’t the ideal environment for an energetic teenager. On the other hand, there were worse things Harry could think of. Since the death of his wife, he had stopped listening to the advice of others. All he wanted to do was yield to the silence and open his heart to nature. Joey, for his part, spent hours on his computer—as a long-term resident it was quietly allowed by Dotty as long as he didn’t tell anyone else—and Joey managed to surprise Harry time and again with fascinating snippets of information that filled his father with a sense of appreciation.

  In recent months, the two had been joined by Gal, a twenty-three-year-old Israeli who had come to America to travel after completing her military service. On one of her hiking trips, she had gotten lost in the forest surrounding the hotel and had finally staggered in, hair disheveled, clothes ragged and torn, and a large backpack on her back. She was tall and slender, with a beauty that was all too apparent despite her haggard appearance.

  That very first evening, Harry had realized how intelligent their new guest was, and once he heard about Gal’s experience in the Israeli military police, he offered her the opportunity to help in his investigations from time to time.

  Harry thought that Gal might strengthen Joey’s rapport with his mother’s Jewish roots, something his wife had wanted. In his heart, Harry felt remorse for now neglecting to celebrate Jewish holidays, but after Olivia’s death, he had simply felt it was beyond his strength. Gal, for her part, enjoyed sleeping in a small hut on the hotel grounds, having a modest yet steady income, delicious food on tap, and the hikes she could take in her free time through glorious country.

  That afternoon would be different, because the following day some famous Hollywood stars were expected to arrive at the hotel in anticipation of a new movie production. Danny McGuire, Jessica Jones and Amanda Mayfair, three young actors whose names had already started regularly appearing in the gossip columns, were due to check in. Mrs. Gershwin bombarded her staff and husband with endless instructions.

  ***

  Malory Siemens burst into a loud laughing fit. “I wonder if the boss is preparing some party games for us.” She was having her lunch break with her coworkers, Maggie, Ryan and Tess. In Kelley Miller’s office, breaks were always brief. Employees worked around the clock. “I’ve been slaving here for five years, and this is the first time she’s decided to spoil us with a company vacation,” Malory said to Amy, who was a new employee.

  “Let’s hope this is really going to be a vacation,” said Ryan. “What do we even have in common with her? I can’t remember a single time I spoke to her about anything other than work …”

  “Maybe she wants to change that?” said Maggie.

  “Or maybe, like she herself said, this is simply a bonus for the Gilbert project,” Malory answered with a smile. “She must have made a shitload of money.”

  David Gilbert was the senior vice president for Dreamland, a joint-stock company selling cosmetics nationwide. He had been arrested on suspicion of stock manipulation, bringing about a landslide drop in his company’s share value and severely harming its reputation. The company’s board of directors was understandably in a panic. Kelley had advised them to minimize damages and fire Gilbert during a live press conference. An hour later, she had fed two different reporters, from two different tabloids, some juicy, gossipy details about some senior executives working for competing companies. The private investigators Kelley employed on a regular basis made sure this kind of information was always available in times of need.

  One executive had been photographed leaving a hotel room after having registered under a pseudonym. It was alleged he’d been having an affair with a well-known male escort. The other had been photographed in various intimate situations with another senior company employee during an international convention in Europe. The timing was just perfect. It didn’t take long for the media to focus its attention on the new scandals, and the Gilbert affair simply faded from the public memory.

  They called her ‘The Iron Lady’, a name that fitted Kelley like a glove. Although she was only thirty-eight, her career had been meteoric, among other reasons because of a willingness to dirty her hands and do the things no one else wanted to do. All the girls Kelley employed were around ten years younger than her, and they treated Kelley with awe and respect. She was as tough as they came and ran the management consulting firm, renowned for its ability to expertly manage crisis situations, with that iron fist.

  Lately, the girls had noticed their boss had been more invested in her appearance than usual. She had dyed her hair and styled it in a new and more chic way. She had even changed the way she dressed and had started showing up in the office in more daring, fashionable outfits. Despite their absolute respect, they knew nothing about Kelley’s personal life. It seemed she spent her entire life inside the office walls. She was always the first to come and the last to leave.

  Then came the announcement about the company vacation.

  Gavin entered the conference room. “The boss is on her way up in the elevator. Come on, get ready, sweeties.” Gavin was Kelley’s right-hand man and the undisputed ruler of office administration in a style that reflected his outspoken, open homosexuality.

  The girls began to pack up. “I wish you could come with us,” said Maggie to Gavin. “It’s going to be boring as hell without you.”

  Before he could answer, Kelley swept into the room.

  “What’s the matter, girls? The day hasn’t even started and you’re already on a break? Malory, what’s up with the Jackson strike? He’s been calling me every five minutes. Did you take care of that?”

  “Yes, boss.” Malory jumped to her feet.

  “Gavin, coffee,” Kelley snapped as she turned and went back to her office.

  ***

  “… to summarize, James Harley’s case demonstrates the inherent tension between freedom of speech on the one hand, and the need to remain sensitive to the general public’s emotions on the other. I recommend that each of us considers exactly where he or she is located on this scale. I wish you all a pleasant weekend and will see you back here on Monday.”

  Professor Roman Anderson gathered his notes hurriedly. He was eager to finish the lesson, his final for the day, and last for the week. Tomorrow, he would be far from this dreary academic scene, rubbing shoulders with glamorous people and two amazing women he had only ever seen on the silver screen.

  “Hi, Professor, could I possibly ask you a little question?”

  He raised his head and saw Charlotte, who often starred in numerous hallway conversations between the lecturers, and not necessarily because of any academic and intellectual prowess. His mind flooded with decidedly inappropriate thoughts.