Sketch of a Murder

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

A fine, drizzling rain cooled Seattle's sidewalks that Thursday afternoon as I watched Dennis Boyd waltz from the courthouse a free man. A beefy bodyguard hovered at one side of him while his attorney protected his other side. The first stirrings of The Rage wound through my stomach.

Idiot! All the bodyguards money can buy won't keep you from feeling The Avenger's righteous Rage.

The expected media flock gathered under umbrellas held over cameras. They chattered and squawked, a bunch of crows arguing over the trash.

"How's it feel to be vindicated by a jury of your peers, Mr. Boyd?" One man shouted, jamming a microphone in front of Boyd's too-handsome face.

Boyd beamed at the man. His smile could have graced a toothpaste ad, all those straight, white teeth. "Wonderful!"

"If your estranged wife agreed to seek psychiatric counseling would you take her back, Mr. Boyd?" A woman reporter thrust a second mic close to Boyd, smiling up at that godless man, worshipful as if he was a god.

With a solemn look donned like a mask, Boyd dropped his voice to a lower range, as befitted such a serious question. He squarely faced the woman reporter. "I fear that relationship has sustained too much damage to salvage. I can only hope Janice will seek the help she needs."

"Mr. Boyd, Mr. Boyd! Will you seek full custody of your daughter now?" A man hollered from the rear of the pack.

Boyd turned to face the direction from which the voice had hailed. "My daughter, Jeannie, deserves to live in the most stable, most life-enhancing environment that I can provide. To do that will require that I obtain physical custody of my child."

Grant Rirdon, a slimeball who sold his soul to the highest bidder, stepped between his illustrious client and the media, hand held up in the universal stop gesture. "Please folks, give my client a break. This has been an extremely stressful few weeks for Mr. Boyd. He is exhausted."

While he spoke, a silver Mercedes limousine slid purring to the curb. A man, broad shoulders straining his suit jacket, unfolded six-feet-plus of muscle from the car and cleaved his way through the throng. Clearly a second bodyguard, even if I had not glimpsed the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. He placed himself in front of Boyd. In this manner, they hustled their client to the waiting car.

Once Boyd was safely inside, the attorney turned for one last sound bite as the cameras zoomed in. "My office will have a statement prepared by four this afternoon. At that time I will be available to answer any further questions. Please, do not attempt to disturb Mr. Boyd at home, at his office, or by phone or e-mail." The attorney smiled, but there was no mistaking the warning in his words. The portly man ducked into the backseat. The first bodyguard slid into a dark, four-door sedan idling behind the Mercedes. The second bodyguard scrunched down, squeezed into the front passenger seat, and the limousine eased into the light mid-afternoon traffic.

Fool! Your bodyguards, riding around with you and patrolling your estate, are no more of a challenge than your paltry security cameras.

As I turned to leave, I noted how Dawn stood with quiet watchfulness near the fringe of the crowd. Her actions, throughout this farce of a trial, had vindicated my choice of media partner. She had been the sole voice championing Janice Boyd.

Never had I sought to speak to the masses through the media, revealing God's Work. But God had spoken clearly. I had to obey.

I wondered if she felt The Rage, too. Is that what infused her work with such intensity?

Father would not have approved of my partnership with Dawn. Father had never done God's Work. He had worked solely for the financial reward, never caring if the cause was righteous. Eventually, he became as evil as any of the ones he eradicated. He was more evil than the last two for they were innocent of anything except having generous life insurance policies and greedy spouses.