Silent Justice by William Bernhardt

any wonder he couldn’t tolerate Prescott? In addition to being arrogant, in addition to getting his job through political connections instead of by merit, in addition to endangering prosecutions by flouting procedure—he was just stupid! “This was no robbery. No robber would stand around here banging at the victim when he had a gun in his pocket and there was so much more loot in the house.”
    “But the stolen jewelry—”
    “That was the dodge. A bit of misdirection intended to confuse us.”
    “Then you agree with me.”
    “What’s your theory?”
    “Serial killer. I think this has to be the work of some kind of major crazy.”
    Mike thought a good long while before answering. “I don’t know. Sure, the perp’s got to be a little off-kilter to do what he did to that man on the bed. Tying him up. Beating him over and over again. Unless …” His eyes drifted back toward the bedroom. “Unless he had a reason.”
    “A reason? What sane reason could there possibly be for that kind of torture?”
    Mike turned abruptly, grabbing his coat from the chair. “That’s what I have to figure out.”
    Through the high-powered binoculars, his green eyes peered out toward the house that last night had been visited with so much carnage—at his hands. From his secure hiding place across the street, he could watch the furious come and go of the various crime technicians, all going about their separate and specialized tasks, rather like ants in an anthill. They would make all their tests and studies, use all their high-tech paraphernalia … and they would come up with nothing.
    He smiled. There was a certain pride a man could take in this sort of work, he realized. To commit an act so horrible, at least by the standards of contemporary society, an act so vilified, and to get totally and utterly away with it—well, one couldn’t help but get a little egoboost out of that. They couldn’t catch him. It simply couldn’t happen. Wasn’t within the realm of possibility.
    As he watched, he spotted a face he knew emerging from the house. A man wearing a stained and rather disgusting trenchcoat. He couldn’t think of the man’s name, but he knew he was a police detective. He’d seen the man’s picture in the paper. The World seemed to think he was quite the Sherlock Holmes, that he could solve anything.
    He laughed quietly. This time, Sherlock Holmes had met his Moriarty. There was no way that boob in the tacky coat could catch him. No way he could even get close. And even if he did get close—
    He laid his hand gently upon the ball-peen hammer still in his coat pocket. He seemed to draw strength from its presence. A current of energy surged through it to him, reminding him that he was invincible, telling him he could destroy anyone who stood in his path.
    No, there was no way he could be caught. Which was important. Because he still had work to do. If he was going to find the merchandise.
    Still, he cautioned himself, it wouldn’t do to get too cocky. Pride goeth before a fall. And advance preparation was the key to success. Perhaps he should take a few precautions. Vary his routine a bit. Just to keep the police swimming in circles.
    His smile broadened. Yes, that was exactly what he would do. It would be smarter that way—and more fun, too. His eyes twinkled in anticipation. After all, variety was the spice of life, right?
    And humans, being the resourceful creatures they were, had devised so many different ways to kill. So so many.
    “Is something wrong?” Sergeant Tomlinson asked.
    Mike rubbed the back of his neck, then scanned the surrounding neighborhood. They were standing in the driveway of the house where the murders had taken place, preparing to get into their respective cars. “I don’t know. I just got a sudden chill for some reason.”
    “Probably the aftershock. That scene inside was pretty gruesome.”
    “Yeah. I suppose so. Look, when you get back to HQ, I want you to get all available personnel