SILENT MAJORITY (Anonymous Justice Book 2) Read online

  Silent Majority

  Anonymous Justice Book 2

  Boyd Craven Jr

  Boyd Craven III

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  About the Author

  The characters and circumstances in this story are a product of the authors’ imaginations, and represent no real person, living or dead. Any real public places or names are used only to build atmosphere for the reader’s mind.

  Copyright © 2016

  Boyd Craven, Jr.

  Boyd Craven, III

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this story may be reproduced in any way without the prior written consent of the author.

  1

  Detective James Miller:

  Hamtramck Police Department

  11:30 a.m. Wednesday, Dec 23rd, 2015

  “That’s one strange dude,” I say to my partner, watching through the window of our office as William David leaves the front door of the PD. He takes the few strides required to reach the cross-walk, where he stands waiting for the light to change.

  There has been pressure on the captain by the City Council, whom everyone feels has an agenda, to arrest Mr. David for the second shooting of the week, caught on film here in Hamtramck. To make matters worse, the DA and the Attorney General, as well as the Department of Justice, are all pushing for the same thing. I knew as soon as I was handed this case that it was going to get highly political. Justified or not, William David shot three unarmed Muslim men the day after Islamic jihads did the church shooting. I had no clue however, that it would blow up into this gigantic shit-storm that it’s become.

  “You know what? I happen to believe him. It’s just… Ugh... The way that they’re twisting the evidence to suit their politics bothers me,” my partner, Detective Wayne Johnson sputters. “If this were any other murder case, any other time, they wouldn’t be forcing us to spend our time bird-dogging that poor guy like this.”

  “Captain’s under orders,” I tell Wayne, “just like us.”

  “Captain’s going to want to watch those YouTube videos—“

  The sudden squealing of tires, and three short bursts of automatic gunfire startle us both. I catch the muzzle flashes out of the corner of my eyes, but I see the full impact of the slugs hitting William’s body, since I’d been looking right at him. His torso is literally torn open by the heavy bullets. We both duck, but I run for the door, as the window shatters from a ricochet. I’m not the only one running towards the gunfire; all of my Brothers-in-Blue are heading out as well, guns drawn.

  “You get the plates?” Wayne calls, from behind my shoulder.

  “939-KRL,” I shout back to him, holding the door open. Then as I let go of it to run to Will I yell, “Somebody call a bus!”

  The civilians inside the PD begin getting up off the floor to peek cautiously out of the windows with shock on their faces and their jaws agape. Even though three plainclothes men got out the door before me, I reach William first. His chest isn’t moving, and I check his throat for a pulse in vain. During the course of these few seconds, he’s already died. The lower front of his sweatshirt is a mass of scarlet, and there’s a growing pool of blood on the cement beneath him. It’s evident that two bullets have punched holes right through where his heart used to be, because I can see light right through him there. Neither I nor anyone else can do anything about that.

  Gunfire from further down the block, near the parking area, makes me jerk my head in that direction in time to see multiple officers firing on the van, but it keeps on going.

  Of all the ballsy things I’ve seen criminals do in my career, I’ve never experienced automatic weapon fire from them so close to me. Everyone knows about the war on guns and assault weapons, but this crime was committed with a fully-automatic AK-47. I’ve shot them, and I’ve been shot at by them, from a distance, when I served in the armed forces. Nothing, however, had prepared me for such a thing right here in the suburbs of Detroit.

  When the average person thinks of an assault rifle, they really get the wrong picture in their head. They think of a rifle designed on the same platform as a true battle rifle, that only fires one bullet for one trigger pull, as fast as you can pull the trigger. They’re thinking of a semi-automatic rifle that just looks kinda like that battle rifle. The weapon that was used here is capable of firing 10 rounds per second.

  Gun control obviously wouldn’t help this situation, because fully-automatic weapons of any kind are already illegal everywhere in the United States. Only criminals and some law-enforcement officers have them.

  I shake my head. “He’s gone,” I tell the new plainclothes woman I haven’t yet met, who is standing guard over us with her weapon raised.

  “I know, but protocol says…”

  I wave her off. Angry… Heartbroken... A rush of thoughts fly through my head in an instant: This young man is dead only because he’d felt compelled to return here, from his cabin, where he’d been safe, to defend himself against a bunch of bullshit charges. I still have no real idea where it is, only which county it’s in, and that it’s in the ‘ass-crack-of-the-thumb.’ Now… It looks like we set him up. God! I feel like punching something, or someone.

  Immediately, cars go tearing out of the PD’s parking lot to begin the chase. If they don’t catch them right away, another wave of officers will be dispatched to watch the hospitals and urgent-care centers. With as much lead as had been poured down the block, they had to have hit something. Later, those who fired their weapons will have a stack of forms to fill out.

  “Fuck this bullshit,” I say, walking back towards the building. I almost tear the door off its hinges going inside.

  “I’m going to need statements from everyone,” the captain says, standing amidst the chaos. “Just as soon as we know we have this situation under control. Miller, my office.”

  I follow, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to release the anger quickly. As I enter, the captain closes the door behind us, as well as the shades to the squad room.

  “Captain, I…”

  “Are you ok, Miller?”

  “I… What?” I ask, looking around.

  “There’s blood on your sleeve and knees. Were you hit?”

  “No,” I say, looking down. “I guess I must’ve kneeled in the pool of Mr. David’s blood, and transferred it to my sleeve somehow.”

  “Good. Do you have everything on tape? The interview, I mean?”

  “Yes, Captain. We’d just finished the interview and he’d given us a key to his apartment voluntarily, in case the ADA still wants it searched.”

  “We’re in a world of shit here, you know that, right?” the captain asks.

  For the first time, I notice how old he seems. His skin is colored with a tinge of gray, and that makes me wonder if he’s really kicked the booze like he claims, or if he’s fallen off the wagon again.

  He looks like death warmed over, I think. Hey, I’m the one who was almost shot here, and am covered in someone else’s blood.

  “Yeah, we sure are,” I say, “the press is going to have a field day with this.”

  “What’s your take?” the captain asks, rubbing one spotted hand over his bald pate.


  “The press is going to crucify us. They’ll say that the City Council’s politics dictated our making a target out of this guy, who was hours away when that house was torched and those people were executed. It’ll get out that we wanted him for questioning, but that he’d had to hear about it on the radio…. He gets here, laughs at our stupid accusations, and then gets gunned down in front of the building for his trouble. Oh yeah, we’ll be lucky if we get to push brooms until retirement, when they’re done with us.”

  I’d told the captain yesterday that he was handing me a shit sandwich when he’d told me to track this guy down. I’d told him that it wasn’t me who’d leaked whatever was said on the radio and TV broadcasts, that it had to be somebody from the DA’s office. I’d told him that it was their fault, but that we’d probably be the ones taking the blame for it. This is even worse though, worse than anything I could’ve imagined.

  “Yeah, I agree. Write up your report. Make sure it’s pristine and perfect. Did he have an alibi, in case the DA makes an issue?”

  “Airtight, but now that he’s dead, they probably won’t care.”

  “Agreed. Get cleaned up, do the report, and do your best to stay ahead of the ball on this one. Make sure that—“

  Wayne comes running into the room without knocking, nearly crashing into the door because it doesn’t open fast enough. “Captain, there’s a big mob of protesters forming outside of Thor’s Gun Shop! It looks like that anonymous tip might’ve had some truth to it. It looks like this may get ugly,” Wayne says, and then looks at me.

  “Do we have any units left to send?” the captain asks.

  “I’ll check, but right now just about everyone is involved in chasing that damned white van. If we don’t catch them soon, they’re going to make it to HWY 94,” Wayne says, wiping fear sweat off his forehead.

  “Keep me posted, dammit! I have to call the Mayor,” he says, putting his hand over the phone.

  “Ok, I’ll get on that, so I can help out with the protest,” I tell the captain, heading out and leaving my partner behind.

  Protest? This city has gone effing crazy! One crisis at a time for me, so I head towards the latrine. Out of habit, I put my left hand in my pocket to make sure my keys are there, and felt the scribble of paper. I pull it out. It has Mr. Averill’s and Mike Thor’s phone numbers on it. I had promised William that I wouldn’t bug Mike unless I had to, but if he has William’s next of kin in his employee records, that will save me hours and hours of digging. I hate making calls like this, but I thumbed in Mike’s number anyhow, and waited.

  “Hello, Thor’s gun shop?” In the background, I hear the sounds of traffic and voices. Everything sounds a bit muffled, like he’s outside. Who knows, maybe he is.

  “This is Detective James Miller of the HPD. Is this Mike Thor?” I ask, recognizing his voice from the dozens of YouTube clips, where he’d held an angry mob off a wounded William David, with a shotgun.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Thor, I regret to inform you that just moments ago, William David was shot and killed in the street, in front of the PD. I was hoping that—“

  “What?” Mike yelled into the phone. “Where is he?”

  “Curbside here at the police department. He was leaving here to head back home,” I tell him, hearing the anger and anguish in the man’s voice.

  “When did it—“

  “Just now,” I interrupt. “I need to get in touch with next of kin, to tell them what—“

  “You rotten fucks! He has no family,” Mike screams. “You people have proven time and again that you can’t keep us safe, and now I’ve got an angry mob forming up here at the gun shop. I’m leaving it, and getting the fuck out of town,” he half sobs and half screams into the phone.

  For a moment, neither of us speaks. I hear what sounds like a slamming door. Finally, I break the silence.

  “I’m sorry for your loss Mike. This is my personal cell number,” I tell him. “Please keep it handy.”

  “Fuck you,” Mike screams and hangs up.

  I hadn’t pulled the trigger that’d killed his friend. I know that he knows that too. He’s just angry. Not at me per se, but I do represent part of the system that had failed them both. Days like this are when I really wish I could just retire. I head into the locker room and grab a shower stall, planning get cleaned up, and then put on the clean change of clothes in my locker.

  The water is a little too hot, but for a moment, I try to let the scalding water wash away more than William’s blood that has dried and crusted on me. I try to let it wash away some of the choking, blinding anxiety that’s begun forming right in the center of me. I’ve been under fire enough in my life to have developed a sort of sixth sense, that warns me just before shit is about to get hairy, and it’s warning me right now...

  “Miller?” I hear the captain’s voice yell into the locker room.

  “Yo?”

  “Full out riot at Thor’s Gun shop. Armed protestors are firing at each other. All hands on deck! Gear up and get with the Lieutenant. We’re coordinating with the State Police and the County Sheriff’s office,” he yells, his words echoing hollowly in the concrete room.

  “Shit just got real,” I yell back.

  “Every ambulance in two counties is headed towards the scene. This is going to be a bad one. Hurry!”

  I plan on it. “This shit has got to stop,” I say out loud.

  2

  Anonymous Justice Members:

  Thor’s Gun Shop

  Hamtramck, MI

  11:30 a.m. Wednesday, Dec 23rd, 2015

  Greg, a Detroit native, had been doing contract work at the Hamtramck City Hall. The building is a mandated gun-free zone, so he wasn’t allowed to carry his concealed piece inside. Instead, he kept it locked in a gun-safe in the trunk of his car.

  Since the first day it appeared on Facebook groups, and his closest friends began talking about nothing else, Greg had been following Anonymous Justice with growing fascination. He’d seen evidence of some terrible crimes there, proof of who had committed them, and seen a surprisingly direct way of justice being administered. That kind of justice would be condemned loudly by many in the country, but it occurred to him that though they are the loudest, they were the minority.

  The silent majority seemed to be beginning to find their voice through the anonymity of social media. They just aren’t as careful of what they say there. They tend to say what they really think. Because of that, there is a new addition to Greg’s trunk. Recently purchased from Halloween USA, and now placed next to the gun-safe, is a Richard Nixon mask made of rubber and foam.

  New evidence had appeared in the group that Thor’s Gun Shop, where a young man had been forced to defend himself from being beaten to death by a mob, was being threatened with firebombing, by the same mob of protesters that had been gathering in front of it for days. Then there had been a call-to-action request for an armed protection detail to guard Thor’s.

  Outside of Anonymous Justice’s social media pages, Greg and his closest friends, talking in a group chat in Messenger, decided to answer the call as a team. When Greg announced it to Anonymous Justice, he immediately got a ton of notifications that other Facebook friends and neighbors planned to show up armed at the counter protest. Nobody was sure how credible the threat of firebombing was, but they decided to help protect against it. They were just tired of living in fear and doing nothing.

  “Are you still taking that half day off?” his supervisor asked him.

  “Yeah, there’s another big protest at the gun shop across the street from me. I’m gonna go get everything locked up and put the storm shutters across the windows on the first floor.”

  “Good, well, it’s the halfway mark, you taking off now or…?”

  “Now,” Greg said, “see you tomorrow.”

  He punched out and headed to his car, which he always parked at the very back of the parking lot for privacy. He opened his trunk and put on the holster, and slid his pistol into it. H
e pocketed three extra magazines for the XD .40. He considered the Nixon mask, and after a second, grabbed it too. He got in the driver’s seat, and threw the mask on the passenger seat, reasoning that since he was working at City Hall, and didn’t want to lose his job, he’d better not take any chances of appearing on any cell phone videos. Besides, there’s no law against being masked and armed, if you do it properly.

  I just hope I don’t get stood up by the guys, and wind up being the only one of the Dead Presidents of the United States there!

  * * *

  Adam got an alert on his phone and looked down. It was from Greg, aka Nixon. He’d been waiting for the message since they’d committed to Anonymous Justice to help guard the gun shop. They knew that the police had been notified too, but they didn’t seem to be taking it seriously.

  Adam was a big 2nd amendment supporter, as were his group of hunting buddies. They’d created their own little group on FB to coordinate hunting plans, tell each other lies, or just brag about their wives and children. They’re all upstanding, conservative family men; pretty darned normal middle-class guys who often got together to shoot a few boxes of shells at the gun club.

  Of all of them, Adam was the only one who didn’t own a handgun. He didn’t feel comfortable with them. He preferred upland bird and waterfowl hunting. He smiled, and put on his duck hunting vest. There was room in each reinforced pocket for a whole box of shells. He put slugs in the left pocket and buckshot in the right.

  He spun the dial on his safe and pulled out his baby: a Remington 1187 that had served his father well, and then passed down to him. He’d already changed out his trap shooting/bird hunting barrel for his slug barrel. It was shorter than the choked barrel, so he knew his pattern would suffer were it fired, but he had no plans of actually shooting it at all.

  There was something on his mind as he headed out to the meeting; and that was why he was ready to pull the trigger if necessary… His niece had been horribly beaten the previous summer by four Middle Eastern boys at the university she attended because she’d dared to walk around in short shorts and a halter top. She’d thought the boys had rape in mind, but they beat her instead. She’d wound up with a bloody nose, a split lip, and her torso had been covered in red welts that turned into deep dark purple bruises. They were never caught.