Tracking Shot

by Colin Campbell

  Harris looked at the sketch McNulty had drawn yesterday. It wasn’t to scale but was a fairly accurate representation of the movie-set courtroom. The judge’s bench. The main doors. The static-camera position.

  “Not this camera then?”

  McNulty indicated an area off to one side. “Over here somewhere. Out of frame from the main camera.”

  Harris traced a path to the door behind the judge’s bench. “And when the shooting started he took the camera out here?”

  McNulty shook his head and pointed to a space beside the judge’s bench. “It was dropped here. I remember it being under the Stars and Stripes.”

  Harris looked at the sketch plan. “So why didn’t you mark it down?”

  McNulty ignored the implication. “I only marked the permanent fixtures. Best I could remember.”

  Harris kept probing. “The bodies weren’t permanent.”

  “They weren’t going anywhere.”

  “Neither was the handheld camera.”

  McNulty looked at the detective. “Apparently it did.”

  Harris returned the stare. “Which brings us back to you.”

  McNulty shook his head. “No. It brings us back to you. Police secured the area. They recorded and vouchered any evidence found at the scene. If anybody’s got that camera, it’s the Waltham Police Department.”

  Harris drummed his fingers on the desk. He took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. When he let it out he stopped drumming. “The camera wasn’t vouchered.” He tapped the sketch plan with one finger. “It wasn’t there when we cleared the casualties and logged the evidence.”

  His finger followed the escape route the witnesses had taken. “The only people who knew what was on that film. Or could hazard a guess.” He walked his fingers across the sketch plan. “Was the guy that shot it…” Then he pointed at McNulty. “…and an ex-cop running damage control for Titanic Productions.”

  McNulty leaned back in his chair. He still hadn’t been searched and read his rights. He still hadn’t been arrested. So this was still exploratory, not definitive. He jerked a thumb through the window in the general direction of the Crescent Motel. “It wasn’t my room that got burgled by someone looking for the film.”

  Harris shrugged. “Unless it was you doing the burgling.”

  McNulty sighed. It was time to put an end to this charade. “The burglar jumped off the balcony. Your cop saw him. Along with half the pleasure boat crew and all the passengers.”

  Harris looked at the technical adviser and gave a sad little smile. “Did I tell you about Judge Reynolds?” The smile got a little broader. “The guy your judge was a dead ringer for?”

  The Detectives Bureau went quiet. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. McNulty waited for the other boot to drop. Patrol cars came and went from the parking lot out back. Farther along Lexington Street a distinctive chorus of air horns sounded as Ladder 2 and Engine 1 deployed from the Waltham Fire Department. There were no accompanying police sirens; this must be a straight-up Fire Department shout. A helicopter thudded overhead and followed the air horns, the 7 News or Fox 25 News chopper chasing a story perhaps.

  The story in here was about to get a whole lot muddier. Or clearer. Depending on your perspective. From McNulty’s point of view it didn’t sound like Harris was going to make life easier. The detective turned his chair sideways and stretched out his legs.

  “He’s our senior judge. Second District Court of Eastern Middlesex. Sits on all the big cases. One he’s covering now is right up your street. Pornography ring. Child abuse.” He sat up and looked at McNulty as if something had just occurred to him. “You’ve had experience with that kind of thing, haven’t you?” He raised his eyebrows. “Back in the U-K.”

  It was a rhetorical question. McNulty knew Harris would have checked his records at the West Yorkshire Police. Undercover Vice Squad when he was on the force. His infiltration of the Northern X child sex ring after he’d been kicked out. The case that gave him enough kudos to approve a move to America and a job with the Savage PD. Before losing that job there as well and starting work for Larry Unger.

  “Same sort of deal here. Vulnerable children. Abuse of authority. Local institutions. High-profile case. Lots of ramifications. Money. Power. Could even impact on the Sheriff election.” Harris waved all that aside. “Anyway. Puts a bullseye on him as a potential target. For this shooting. Icing on the cake being the orphanage under investigation for the very case your judge could have been sitting on. If he’d been Judge Reynolds.”

  There still wasn’t a question in there so McNulty waited for Harris to get to the point. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “So what I’m getting at. One of the few people with some idea what the second camera might be filming.” He pointed at McNulty. “You.” Then he settled back into storytelling mode. “That person, who can help point us in the right direction. He has ties to the orphanage that brought his sister to America and is working for the movie company that stands to lose out if publicity links it to the pornography ring.”

  He stopped and took a deep breath. He let it out slow and even, never taking his eyes off McNulty. When his lungs were empty he breathed normally again. The look in his eyes was all business. “Larry Unger started out in pornography didn’t he?”

  THIRTEEN

  “You told him about the missing camera?”

  McNulty shrugged. “It was that or cop for screwing the first A-Cs motel room.”

  Larry looked at his technical adviser. “Cop for screwing?” He threw up his hands. “You’re gonna have to start talking English.”

  McNulty had joined the head of Titanic Productions at Bertucci’s Italian Restaurant at the end of a narrow strip mall beside the I-95 cloverleaf on Winter Street, halfway back from the location at Cambridge Reservoir. It was either Bertucci’s or The Green Papaya, but McNulty didn’t like Thai food. Pizza was universal. Even the Germans liked pizza. It was late afternoon and traffic on the interstate was picking up. McNulty ignored the cars whizzing past the off-ramp. “We’ve got bigger problems than language.”

  He toyed with the glass of iced water he’d been given while they waited for the pizza. “How come you picked an actor for the judge who looks exactly like the District Court judge down the road?”

  Larry took a sip of his ice water. His mouth always felt dry when McNulty used this tone of voice. “Same reason the set looked exactly like the District Court. Authenticity.”

  McNulty gave Larry a disbelieving look. “You don’t do authentic.” He pushed his glass to one side and leaned forward. “But you do see cheap publicity.”

  Larry tried to look innocent but it wasn’t in his repertoire. “Publicity?”

  McNulty hardened his stare. “And a little payback.”

  Larry was better at feigning lack of understanding. “Now you’ve lost me.”

  McNulty scrutinised Larry’s face, looking for signs of the lie. “You knew about the case being tried this week. The pornography ring.”

  Larry kept his face blank. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because it’s a high-profile case.”

  “Can’t be that high profile. You didn’t know about it.”

  McNulty flicked his glass and the sharp ping sounded clean in a dirty world. “I didn’t start out as a pornographer.”

  Larry’s shoulders sagged. Being reminded of his shady past always brought mixed emotions; shame at how he’d started out and pride at having left that life behind. Of course the fact that McNulty had sunk the producer’s last remaining tie to that life in Quincy Harbor had helped. Now he was an up-and-coming mainstream producer and Titanic Productions was going from strength to strength. He looked at McNulty and sighed. “You mean thumbing my nose at the porn industry by duplicating the court case against them in Dead Naked?”

  McNulty nodded. “I mean exactly that.”

  Larry shrugged. “It seemed like a good ide
a at the time.”

  The waitress came over and set up a trestle beside their table. She rested the serving tray on the trestle and picked up the first of the pizzas. “Sporkie?”

  Larry raised a hand and the waitress put the sweet Italian sausage and ricotta pizza on his half of the table. She wiped a plate with a cloth and laid it in front of him. The cutlery was already set. She passed McNulty the other pizza.

  “And the Ultimate Bertucci. Enjoy your meal gentlemen.”

  McNulty watched her walk away. “She must have us mixed up with someone else.” Then he looked at Larry. “Like somebody did at the courthouse.”

  Larry unwrapped his knife and fork. “It wasn’t at the courthouse.”

  McNulty left his cutlery alone. “Exactly. Because the courthouse has security up the wazoo. So the best way to send a message is to shoot the judge’s double.”

  Larry held a knife in one hand and the fork in the other. “No. I don’t buy that. It’s gotta be a coincidence.”

  McNulty lowered his voice. “The police don’t believe in coincidences.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Like a pornographer setting up a duplicate court, then the judge getting shot.”

  Larry was unmoved. “Former pornographer.”

  McNulty shook his head. “Cops don’t see former. For them it’s like alcoholics. You might be ninety days sober but you’re always an alcoholic.” He kept a level gaze on Larry. “Which puts you high on their suspects list.” Then he tapped his own chest. “And me in the shit.”

  Larry frowned. “Why you?”

  McNulty blew out his cheeks then took a slow breath. “Because I work for the prime suspect and just tried to steal the Zapruder film.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “That’s what it looks like. Me trying to cover up for you by searching the cameraman’s room.”

  He didn’t mention the other reason he was screwed, the connection between the orphanage and his sister. Detective Jon Harris had plenty of reasons not to believe anything McNulty said. The only way to get out from under that was to bring the detective something nobody currently had. Footage of the shooter. Or the shooter himself.

  “You had fake security guards as well as the judge, didn’t you?”

  Larry nodded. “You know I did. You trained them.”

  McNulty glanced at the ceiling and smiled at the CCTV surveillance camera. “And security cameras?”

  Larry waved a finger. “They’re fake too. There’s no footage there.”

  McNulty leaned back in his chair. “The gunman doesn’t know that.”

  FOURTEEN

  There are good ideas and there are bad ideas. Some ideas are good but require so many things to go right that they border on being bad. And some ideas are just plain bad, but have good intentions. As McNulty laid out his plan, Larry wasn’t sure which category it fell into, but one thing was for sure: Win or lose, it was going to go off with a bang. When McNulty finished, it was Larry’s turn to state the obvious.

  “Nobody’s that stupid.”

  McNulty pushed his empty pizza plate away. “He was stupid enough to shoot the wrong judge.”

  Larry took a drink of water. “I thought we’d agreed that was a message to the real judge.”

  “Pretty stupid message.”

  Larry put his glass down. “Not if you want to warn him off without risking being shot at.”

  McNulty shrugged. “However it came about, he was serious about getting the Zapruder film.” He kept steady eyes on the producer. “So he’ll come after the CCTV footage as well.”

  Regardless of whether the idea was good or bad, there was one more thing Larry was sure of: Win or lose, Titanic Productions was going to get a lot of free publicity. Now all he had to do was get the word out. On the sly. That was right up Larry’s alley. He looked at his technical adviser. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

  McNulty waved for the bill. “I’m going to see a man about a paint job.”

  They were working late at Abko Auto Body. The sound of drilling and spraying echoed across the yard when McNulty drove past Aston Martin of Boston and pulled into the dusty lot. The workshop was down an alley around the side of Abko Auto Sales, which advertised,

  QUALITY PRE-OWNED

  CARS FOR SALE

  The cars on the forecourt suggested pre-owned trumped quality by a good margin. The hours of business were shown as:

  MON-FRI 7.30-5.30

  The car sales office was closed. The body shop was open. McNulty wasn’t buying a car. He walked down the alley toward the noise. This was one of those gut-instinct inquiries that had served him so well in the police. Crime fiction and movies called it playing a hunch. McNulty considered it following his nose. Right now his nose was smelling fresh paint. He found the foreman in a wooden office next to the sliding doors. “You boys always work this late?”

  The foreman looked up from his desk. “Only when people want their cars sprayed.” He nodded toward the orphanage across Linden Street. “And when jobs back up because movie companies want quiet during the day.” He looked at McNulty. “Don’t tell me you’re filming now.”

  McNulty came into the office and shut the door to keep the noise down. Part of the location manager’s job was to keep locals happy about the disruption to their lives. Part of the technical adviser’s job was to ensure that all things police-related were true to life. On a Larry Unger set those jobs sometimes merged. That’s why McNulty had been liaising with the businesses along Linden Street on the day of the shooting.

  “After the other day I don’t think we’ll be filming here again.”

  The foreman put his pen down. His expression said he felt guilty about seeming insensitive. “Yeah. Hell of a thing. Sorry.”

  McNulty waved the apology aside. “Reason I’m here. Did the police ask you guys any questions?”

  The foreman nodded. “Sure they did.” Again the nod along the street. “Everyone on the strip.”

  McNulty looked through the office windows into the workshop. There were workbenches and cars on ramps but what he was looking for was the heavy plastic sheeting that protected the staff from the spray bays. Industrial fans can only clear the air so much. The plastic sheets keep the spray in the booths. “Anybody see the van?”

  The foreman shook his head. “We were grabbing a bite to eat. Since you’d shut us down.”

  McNulty didn’t feel guilty. Titanic Productions had paid compensation for loss of business. He leaned his back against the door. “I saw it. Dull grey panel van.”

  The foreman shrugged. “You’re one up on me then.”

  McNulty waved at the cars in for repair. “Thing you can help me with. There’s lots of grey cars. Silver grey. Charcoal grey. Metallic grey. But you don’t see many grey vans.”

  The foreman leaned back and folded his arms. “Company signage doesn’t stand out against grey. That’s why you see so many white vans.”

  McNulty frowned. “Unless grey is your company’s color. You know any local firms that use grey vans? Could have had one stolen?”

  The foreman stretched his back. He’d been sitting too long. “Unless you’re a Civil War re-enactor, nobody uses grey.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  The industrial fan cut out and a man in coveralls pushed through the plastic sheeting. He took a gauze facemask off and rubbed his eyes beneath protective goggles. The workshop descended into quiet. There was no more drilling. Whatever painting was being done was over for the day. The smell of paint was heavy in the air. Gloss or undercoat, it all smelled the same to McNulty.

  “So my next question is. What color undercoat do you use?”

  McNulty got back into his car and wound the windows down. Fresh air was the only way to clear your nose from half an hour in a spray bay. As with all inquiries, one question had led to another, but it was the answers that moved you forward.

  “Neutral color.”
<
br />   “What do you call neutral?”

  “One that ain’t going to contaminate the finished color.”

  “Like matte grey then?”

  The foreman had nodded. “Not too dark a grey. But yes. You aren’t going to use blue if you’re painting the van red.”

  Questions and answers. They move you forward. Like where had McNulty seen a shiny red van lately? And would it still have a dent in the roof?

  FIFTEEN

  The evening sun slanted low out of the western sky and glinted off the Charles River. Opposite direction from yesterday at the Greenway Diner. Today’s sunset was throwing sparkles and reflections across the back of the Crescent Motel, highlighting the security cameras nestled under the eaves. McNulty parked in the far corner and replayed the escape route. From the balcony to the roof of the red van. Then the parking lot to the riverside walk before jumping off the bridge onto a passing leisure boat. He rested his arms on the roof of the car while he examined angles and coverage, wondering how much the motel CCTV had caught on camera.

  He glanced across the river again, straining against the sun to see a massive parking lot behind some kind of industrial complex. The parking lot was empty, apart from some activity down near the water’s edge. Somebody fishing, perhaps. McNulty turned back toward the motel. It was time to go fishing himself.

  “You should be director of photography, covering this many cameras,” McNulty told the motel clerk.

  “I could do even better if they weren’t static.”

  As with all budget motels, the young man working the front desk was also the advance booking agent, receptionist and check-in guy. The thing he seemed most proud of though was his skill with the on-site security cameras. One thing McNulty had learned over the years was that the best way to get cooperation was through flattery and compliments.

  “Well, you’ve certainly got your finger on the pulse. Thanks for doing this.”