Justice for Alina

Justice for Alina

by

dmallord

Copyright by dmallord, 2022, USA. All rights reserved.

7,500 MS Word Count

Author's note:

The springboard for this story stems from a prior character development piece. This expansion relates to the cold case work of the 'Fixer' and his Asian-American partner, Jackie Wilson, investigating the death of a teen nearly ten years ago. It is not like the usual sexually-charged stories found on Literotica.com nor are there any sexually-titillating acts within this story. The theme is not suitable for such content.

This revision expands the storyline, brings the sword-wielding Jackie Wilson into the case, and brings closure to this story. Some comments on the character development piece asked for this expansion. Hopefully, this meets previous readers' expectations.

A tip of the hat to Kenjisato, a volunteer Literotica editor, for undertaking the grammatical corrections of this work. His keen eye makes this a much better story.

_______________

Justice for Alina

For the past nine years, on each June 19th, I have sat drumming my fingers on a desk, asking myself the same agonizing question, "Jack Wilson, are you going to pick up the damn phone and make the call to Atlanta, Georgia? You know you'll break her heart again when she asks you the same inevitable question...."

"Hello, Mr. Jack. Did you find him?" Eulalia Rice will ask, "... Is my Alina gonna get justice for what he did?"

My response always runs along the line of, "Mrs. Rice, the search through the forensic analysis is still ongoing. We haven't found him yet. But I'm not going to give up. I promise you, one day I'm going to get the...."

My past words never brought any comfort to Mrs. Rice, nor myself. Nothing I found at the crime scene that day pointed to anyone as a culprit. Running DNA comparatives is the only investigative resource that remains at this point. Weekly, the CID lab ran those incoming evidence submissions against those found on Alina's body. Her missing person poster hangs above that machine as a reminder to the technical staff that I expect results on a match to be sent immediately to my phone.

Nine years running, I've made that dreaded phone call. Each time I hang up the phone, my heart sinks like a disappearing stone thrown into a lake. Each year, Mrs. Rice, a mother relying on a wheelchair for mobility, prays for justice while expectantly awaiting positive results in next year's update call.

It's an ongoing investigation of my priority cold case involving Mrs. Rice's eighteen-year-old daughter. She holds on to hope, praying that justice for Alina will come. And as for me, this case is personal. It began before my involvement with a unique brand of criminal justice. This case was the impetus for the formation of the Criminal Studies Division; at least, that is what the sign on the headquarters building reads. In reality, it should read, 'Vigilante Justice League.'

We are an elite operatives' group, working in the shadows, just outside the confines of legal boundaries. Our mission: is to right wrongs when the legal justice systems cannot. Each operative stands alone--works alone--and has virtually unlimited resources to achieve justice. Each operative is carefully picked, not just for skills and intelligence factors, but for purity of heart in finding justice. The latter trait isn't found in some psych-eval testing. It is found through field testing of the operative's mettle under duress. If that factor becomes broken, their entire precept of justice brings down the foundation upon which I built this program.

Today isn't June 19th, but I'm making a call to Mrs. Rice. I can hear the dial tone ringing... had it been June 19th, it would have been answered on the first ring. She'd have been expecting my customary call at two in the afternoon.

Today, my call would turn out differently from what I had anticipated...

_______________

A Jobsite Drive Nine Years Ago

Atlanta, Georgia, is hotter than Hades in June. But that still doesn't mean people don't stop drinking coffee! And ex-GIs still drink a hell of a lot of coffee; it's the caffeine trigger needed to get motivated. I pulled into my usual drive-thru for coffee and breakfast to go.

"Morning--Alina," I stuttered, as the window opened. The name tag gave me a start. For the past month, I'd been through this place every day except Sundays, and today that familiar face didn't match the name tag on her apron.

"Why you callin' me, Alina? You knows my name is Brenda, Mister Jack," came a surprised and nervous, southern-black-vernacular response.

Smiling, I chuckled, "Didn't think so, darling, but that's what your apron has pinned on it."

Looking down, she cried out, "Oh hell, oh shit, oh--my God!" as she pulled her apron away from her chest to check the name tag. Brenda fled, leaving my coffee and sausage-biscuit meal on the edge of the windowsill.

Quickly, the manager came to the window to replace her, handing me the order apologetically, "Sorry about that, Mister Jack. Things in the neighborhood are a bit upset. She done put on her cousin's apron by mistake." Pointing to a poster taped in the window, he added, "That's Alina, right there."

Glancing to the right, I spotted a flyer taped to the glass. It was a parent's plea for help-- a missing child's poster. 'Alina Is Missing--Help Me Find Her,' it read. My eyes focused on the teenager's photo-studio shot. She had those popular Goddess braids that were all the rage with young black girls around here. Alina's picture showed a girl without a worry in the world -- except that she was missing.

"Been gone now, three days," he said, handing me my change. "Seems like more. Didn't think she'd up and run off like that. She don't seem to be that kind of girl."

Nodding, I shook my head."Hopefully,"I thought,"she just went hormonal and ran off with some boyfriend."

A darker alternative thought crept into the back of my head while I drove out to the new job site. I'd seen enough TV cop shows that stress the first seventy-two hours are critical in missing person reports, if you could believe them. I figured that her parents must be off their rails with worry at this point.

_______________

Jack's Recollection of the First Day

Earlier that morning, I lit out of my front door, with my coffee mug in hand, intent on heading down Interstate-75, to a new job site in south Atlanta. That area includes Centennial Lakes, a development in Acworth at the northwest tip of Cobb County.

They poured the foundation slab last week in Centennial Lakes. That's when my boss got the call and slotted this morning to start framing. His first trip, after that notice, was to come to see me.

"Be there early, sarge," he had said. "The lumber delivery is scheduled for seven o'clock."

I smiled at his remark, "Be there early, sarge." He knew me well enough that I didn't have to be reminded. If you get to work at seven, you're already fifteen minutes late! Be there, early at seven, snow-haired Curly Joe had said, as his slow gait to his pickup reinforced his seventy-five-year-old bent frame.

I laughed at his words and shot back, "Hell, by six-thirty, I've already had a two-mile run in, showered, and on my way to 'my regular work time,' well before seven-thirty."

"Yeah, son. I know that!" he laughed, as well, "Go, Army! Airborne!... but ya know only crazy nuts jump out of a perfectly-landable aircraft... right?"

Curly had served in the Airforce as a navigator aboard those C-130s for years, until he retired. His laconic remark was just to poke some fun at my 82nd Airborne military service. Our guys are were the ones who parachuted out of perfectly-landable aircraft into the heat of battle--units with the highest casualty rates and where one knew death could come even before their feet hit the ground.

Be there early. That's the price I paid for being what the guys started calling me, 'Mr. Fixer.' I'd left the heat and red dust of Fort Bragg trailing behind me in search of a job that didn't include vaulting out of the back of military aircraft loaded with ammo and a Barrett M82 that could shoot a hole through an armored vehicle at over 2,500 yards away. Watching a vehicle stopped dead in its tracks from that distance was one thing, but a close-up inspection of the shrapnel damage to the crew inside was a different layer of raw emotions, especially when they looked like Iraqi kids.

I'd parachuted, you might say, into some construction work in Atlanta, Georgia. I joined a crew that could pound nails in lumber all day long, almost like John Henry drove steel spikes for the railroad in that old Johnny Cash song "The Legend of John Henry's Hammer." However, that was only when they showed up for work. But not one hired hand seemed to care a lick at it beyond that.

The straw boss remarked on my first day on the job, "Curly Joe, doesn't pay me to think, sarge, just to frame it up. Me, sarge? I like to leave at the end of the day and go home, grab a brew, and maybe screw the old lady if the kids are out of the house, ya know?"

Curley Joe paid the crew by the hour to nail--not to show up early. And as for taking responsibility for getting things organized, well, it was something else no one wanted to undertake, even if it came with more cash in their paycheck. They were satisfied with the adage, 'If it looks like a nail, then drive it in. Iffin' it don't, leave it be.'

"Yeah, boss! I'll be here ta'marra, count on me!" was a frequent refrain. I'd picked up the local vernacular for 'tomorrow' and heard that repeatedly spoken to Curley Joe. He took them at their word, week after week, and they let him down on many a day. He had a soft heart and took them back, minus the day's pay missed. They grew to expect that. They disrespected the man and leveraged his willingness to forgive and keep them employed. Production wasn't their concern, but it was his.

I'd been on the job six weeks, not a day missed. I became a blip on his radar. "Sarge," he praised me, "you got the drive! Smarts, too. If you stay, a guy with your 'no nonsense attitude' could run your own company like this one day." Curley Joe liked that I showed initiative.

So here I am, a year later, his crew foreman, showing initiative and showing up early. I weeded out the shiftless. I fired those that lied and caused production delays. It wasn't too hard to do the weeding. Looking a bit like John Henry, I only had to lift one smart mouth off the ground with a double-fisted grasp of his collar and had us a 'talking to' around the corner of the building. It created an excellent first impression on my re-shaped work crew. I organized the recruits, minus the military-style morning calisthenics I had been accustomed to for eight years. Production increased. The pay got better for them. The days got longer for me having to organize the deliveries and work schedules.

The extra hours took my mind off war memories. I looked at those long hours as being on the plus side of things.

_______________

A Flyer Changed My Goals

I stopped at my usual drive-through for coffee and breakfast to go that morning. That conversation with Brenda and the manager was rattling around in my mind. On the drive toward I-75, I caught sight of that missing person flyer for three miles stapled on telephone poles. Then it stopped appearing.

What if it was just a girl that took off over a spat with her parents and was hiding out at some friend's place, or was it a case of something more sinister? Even so, I felt for the family. As I drove, I realized that she must live in the neighborhood. My thoughts went that way because the flyers were plentiful all up and down the main street, but became sparse and stopped two miles down the road.

The poster child thoughts faded as I arrived and began staking out sorting piles for the lumber drop-off. The truck arrived shortly after, and the boom crane began off-loading the lumber bundles at the staked locations I had marked. For the rest of my day, my mind got caught up in 'if it looks like a nail'...

Those posters caught my eye as I drove back into my temporary rental in a seedy-looking neighborhood in Atlanta proper. I was dirty and a bit tired, but the angelic look on her face tugged at me as I sat at a stop sign, staring at the flyer taped to it.

"Ya could at least take a look, sarge, maybe help somehow. Pay back your debt for those you killed over there in some manner,"that vague inner voice that often pushes my buttons was taunting me again.

"Fuck it!" I muttered, and turned left.

At first, I decided to drive the neighborhood just to scope out the metrics of the posters. I looked for the epi-center of the distribution source. I found it not long after. It was an older home, similar to my rental, just not as run-down as mine. A small group gathered to pick up flyers stacked on a card table by the porch. I suppose they were headed out to shopping centers to post those. I sat in my Silverado, watching for a moment before alighting. I'm still unsure what prompted my exit and slow stride to the table. Perhaps, it was because of a lady in her wheelchair helping hand out the posters. Her facial features resembled those of Alina, the poster girl. Mother probably, I figured. She looked too young to be a grandmother.

"Afternoon, ma'am. I saw the posters down the road toward I-75," I said, as I started to explain why I came. I wasn't sure what else to say after that.

She turned to look at me, more with suspicion than anything else, as she sized me up. I was out of place in this neighborhood.

"My daughter, Alina," she responded, pointing to a stack of flyers. "Why's a white man taking an interest in my daughter?"

There was a touch of guarded disdain in her voice. I read the drawn look and weariness registering upon her face.

I wasn't sure how to answer her question. She deserved one, however. I'd had some experience with pain and loss myself. The words for those found their way out of my mouth.

"Ma'am, sometimes it's not important why someone takes an interest in a missing person, just that it happens, and that's what is important. There is too much hurt in this world for us all, ma'am, to have to go through missing someone like you are going through. I'm not sure what I can do, but I thought I would offer to help. Anything that you thought I could do?" I proffered.

If she turned me down, I would understand her point of view. A 'no' would provide me some healing, knowing I'd offered some service. I'd leave it up to her to accept help or not.

"Mister, I don't know what more to do, or my family can do. The police came and took a report, but said they didn't have anything to go on, since they didn't have any crime scene or eyewitness reports. Black girls don't get plastered on TV like that..." Her voice trailed off. Those teary eyes dropped down to gaze at the flyer she held in her hands.

I knew what she was talking about. The television news had a barrage of alerts on a missing blonde, blue-eyed girl from the Alpharetta area of Atlanta, the aristocracy area. The police had been all over that case, and it continued. On the news, I hadn't seen anything about a missing black girl from the down-trodden side of Atlanta.

In the pause, I asked, "Did they canvas the area, like look for her... empty houses, things like that?" I didn't want to come right out and say what I thought, "Look for her under some rubble, or in a dumpster."

She shook her head, slowly wiping away a few tears, and then gave a slight shrug as though she wasn't sure what the police were doing. Her reaction showed that police communication with the missing girl's mother was not proactive.

"I can help with that," I said.

I learned a bit about Alina's comings and goings from Mrs. Rice. Questions got answers to Alina's traveling range: where her daughter frequently visited, her school location, last contacts, and their grocery shopping places. Knowing those location points, I applied my former military surveillance work skills. I mapped those out and started a grid search until almost sundown. Coming back, I found Mrs. Rice, still on the porch, as though waiting for Alina to walk up the steps and greet her with, "Mama, I'm home!"

Peering over those horn-rimmed glasses, Mrs. Rice looked over the grid map as I explained the areas I had cleared. "I see what you are doing," she said. "I can have my brother help you do more of those squares tomorrow if you can still help some more."

"Yes, ma'am. Tomorrow, I'll come back after work."

"Thank you, Mister..." her voice faltered, searching for a name to complete that thought.

"Jack Wilson," I filled in the pause. "I'm Jack Wilson. I work in construction. My team calls me 'The Fixer.' I'll be back after work tomorrow."

"Thank you, Mr. Jack..., for helping to look for my Alina."

_______________

Day Seven -- Alina Is Missing -- Help Find Her!

After my work, Alina's Uncle Colby and I widened the search area for three consecutive days. He and I knocked on doors, nailed up posters, and pried open doors to abandoned buildings. Methodically, we marked off grid-search boxes going well beyond the seventy-two critical hours, the FBI said were most hopeful. It was ground covered that the police department had not undertaken. For them, it was still just a girl gone off; not uncommon, they said, and left it at that. "After all, she wasn't a white girl from Alpharetta," was the unspoken thought.

Some five blocks away from Alina's home, near dusk, I heard Uncle Colby's voice cry out, "Dear God!"

His anguished voice wailed out from an abandoned shack behind an old home marked for demolition. Rushing to the rear of the building, I found Colby frozen in place, gripping the doorframe of the shed he had pried open. The overpowering smell of decomposition brought me to a halt. Uncle Colby dropped to his knees, giving me a clear line of sight at a female corpse bound by ropes. The cruelty was evident from the way her splayed body had been positioned. It was Alina. I knew that from the recognizable clothing sliced and piled on the rotted carpet. Her uncle knew it from the bolt of lightning that pierced his heart. Alina met a tormented ending.

Right after Alina's funeral, I vowed to her mother and myself, that I would track down the guilty responsible for this sadistic death. The police had processed the crime scene with nothing to go on but a bit of DNA. After that, I became obsessed with learning as much as possible about tracking such cases. I studied the mechanics of evidence tracing.

Alina's case turned cold as ice, and not a damn person in law enforcement seemed to care. With Alina's case seemingly going nowhere, I left construction work the following year. Using my GI Bill to enroll in courses, I pursued a career in the Justice Department. Eventually, I worked my way up to high-profile criminal cases that required solutions beyond traditional law enforcement roles. I became an expert, a cold-case investigator. Over time, I realized that many of those cases needed a level of justice that could reach beyond the courtrooms. Some like-minded individuals in law enforcement disdainfully call it--vigilante justice.

My colleagues and I gravitated toward one another, preferring to call it 'justice served cold,' which sometimes is required when the legal systems fail us. Sometimes, cold justice is much more expedient than court resolutions. Not all of our 'fixer solutions' end that way. Some of them are returned to the legal criminal justice system if the evidence is sound. It took years to form a network of similar-thinking 'fixers' operating on the periphery of our legal systems.