“I don’t know who you are. Please.”
“I told you!” She shocked him again, knew by the way he convulsed that she was nearing the end. “I’m Lady Justice. Say my name!”
“Lady Justice,” he mumbled, barely conscious.
“And justice will be served.”
She had the bucket and the blade ready, brought them over. She set the bucket between his legs.
“What’s that for? What are you doing? I confessed. I’m sorry. Oh my God, oh God, please, no!”
“It’s all right, Nigel.” She smiled into his watering, horrified eyes. “I’m going to take care of your needs. For the last time.”
She kept him alive as long as she could, and when it was done, when he hung limp and silent, she let out a long sigh.
“So. Justice is served.”
As dawn broke over the city, Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood over the naked, mutilated body. The early breeze frisked through her choppy cap of hair, flapped at her long leather coat as she read the bold, computer-generated print on the sign tacked securely where the victim’s genitals had been.
He broke his vows of marriage,
and woman he disparaged.
His life he built on wealth and power,
to lure the helpless to his tower.
He raped for fun,
and now he’s done.
LADY JUSTICE
Eve shifted her field kit, turned to the uniformed officer, the first on scene. “What do you know?”
The beetle-browed, mixed-race female snapped to. “The nine-one-one came in at oh-four-thirty-eight. A limo dropped off a female, one Tisha Feinstein, on the corner of West Eighty-eighth and Columbus. Feinstein states that after attending her bachelorette party with fourteen friends, she wanted to walk, catch some air. Catching said air, she walked the three blocks uptown to Ninety-first, saw the body laid out across the sidewalk here. She ran into the building—this is her residence, Lieutenant—woke her fiancé, one Clipper Vance. He came out, saw the body, called it in.
“My partner and I responded, arrived on scene at oh-four-forty, secured the scene, called for a pair of beat droids to help with that. Officer Rigby is inside with the wits.”
“All right, Officer, stand by.”
After sealing up, she crouched by the body, opened her field kit. Then, pressing the victim’s thumb to her Identi-pad, she read out for the record:
“Victim is identified as Nigel B. McEnroy, Caucasian, age forty-three, British citizen. His several listed residences include an apartment at 145 West Ninety-first, New York City. That would be the same building as Tisha Feinstein, who discovered the body.”
Eve scanned the face. “Hardly a surprise she didn’t recognize him if she’d known him. Severe bruising and burn marks, most likely electrical, on the face, the body, ligature marks, deep, both wrists, indicate the victim was bound during torture and struggled during same.”
She took out microgoggles, took a closer look at the cuts and bruises on the wrists. “From the angle, I’d say his arms were bound over his head, carried the weight of his body. ME to confirm. The genitals have been severed.”
She bent close, lifted the bottom edge of the sign for a clearer angle.
“No visible hesitation marks, looks almost surgical. Possible medical knowledge or experience?”
She took out her gauges. “TOD oh-three-twelve. COD, possible blood loss from castration, possible cardiac incident from electric shocks. Maybe a combo.”
She sat back on her heels. “So he was bound, tortured, killed elsewhere—need some privacy for that—placed here. Not dumped so much as arranged, basically on his own doorstep. And with this handy, poetic note.
“Lady Justice. Somebody was really pissed at you, Nigel.”