Avenger

by Frederick Forsyth

The visitor did not look like much compared to the muscular bulk of the former linebacker turned detective. He just stood in front of the desk and said, “You remember the teenager, turned to heroin and prostitution, gang raped and beaten to death four weeks back? I’m her father.” Alarm bells began to tinkle. The sergeant had risen and extended a hand. He withdrew it. Angry, vengeful citizens had his fullest sympathy and could expect nothing more. To any working cop, they are tiresome and can be dangerous. “I’m sorry about that, sir. I can assure you that every effort …” “At ease, Sergeant. I just want to know one thing. Then I’ll leave you in peace.” “Mr. Dexter, I understand what you must be feeling, but I am not in a position …” The visitor had put his right hand in his jacket pocket and was pulling something out. Had front desk security screwed up? Was the man armed? The sergeant’s own piece was an uncomfortable ten feet away in a desk drawer. “What are you doing, sir?” “I’m putting some bits of metal on your desk, Sergeant Austin.” He went on until he was finished. Sergeant Austin had been in the military, for they were of a similar age, but had never left the States. He found himself staring down at two Silver Stars, three Bronze Stars, the Army Commendation Medal, and four Purple Hearts. He had never seen anything like it. “Far away and long ago, I paid for the right to know who killed my child. I bought that right with my blood. You owe me that name, Sergeant Austin...