Tracking Shot

by Colin Campbell

  Harris sat at the table with a strong black coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs with cremated bacon strips. “You don’t want to be giving me attitude right now.”

  McNulty took the attitude out of his voice. “Because the judge is giving you a hard time?”

  Harris sprinkled salt on his eggs. “Because this whole thing is turning into a close protection detail.”

  McNulty stirred sugar into his tea. “Making sure the warnings don’t become assassination?”

  Harris paused with a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth. “When I should be looking at everything tying you and Larry Unger and Chester Brook Orphanage to the pornography trial.”

  McNulty watched the detective chew his eggs. “Larry’s got nothing to do with it. And the orphanage is just an orphanage.”

  Harris swallowed and took a drink of coffee. “And your cameraman was just embracing free market enterprise.”

  McNulty thought about Randy Severino and sighed. “We all make mistakes.”

  Harris finished another mouthful. “Yeah, well. You made a pretty fucking big one last night.”

  McNulty nodded. “Mmm, hmm, says you, but I was just trying to help.”

  Harris put his fork down. “By playing at being a cop.” He put his knife down as well. “I’ve got news for you. You aren’t a cop anymore. So stop it with the inquiries bullshit. The Cloverleaf Boys are unstable. You don’t want to be getting stuck down there.”

  McNulty thought about the rusty foreign car that had been following him. “They could patch up your bodywork and give it a paint job.”

  “It’s the rust and the paint job that gives it undercover appeal.”

  “Except I saw you. How undercover is that?”

  Harris frowned. “I wasn’t hiding, I was following. There’s a man with a gun got as much interest in you as I have.”

  McNulty looked at Harris with fresh eyes. “And if he comes for me you go for him.”

  “Or I drive him away so he doesn’t come after you. You’re an asshole but you’re still an ex-cop.”

  McNulty nodded his thanks but didn’t speak. Harris went back to eating his breakfast. Being an ex-cop was both a curse and a blessing. It meant that you saw the world in a different light than the rest of the population, people who have never seen the dark things that men can do to one another. It also made you feel invincible, like when you were on the job, except you don’t have the resources or the backup anymore. That was the trap that McNulty had fallen into. The cloverleaf overpass had brought that home to him. Setting himself up as a target at the courthouse set had been a step too far. It was foolish to think that a man who had already shot five people wouldn’t shoot him at the drop of a hat. The upside of being an ex-cop is you know when the real cops have no evidence to hold you. That’s why he was having breakfast now.

  “So I’m off the hook then?”

  Harris stabbed at a piece of bacon and it shattered, sending splinters of cremated meat across the table. “Your grubby fingerprints are all over this investigation. Between covering for Titanic Productions and helping deflect shit from the Chester Brook Orphanage, I trust you about as much as a fox in a henhouse.”

  McNulty leaned back in his chair. “I’m not after the hens.”

  Harris gave up on his breakfast.

  “I know. You protect the hens. I read your file.” He pushed his plate away. “But protecting people is exactly why you’re mud deep in this.” He rested his elbows on the table and hardened his tone. “And here’s something else to think about.” He stabbed a finger at the table. “You setting that shit up last night. At the movie set. That had all my guys looking at you and the orphanage. Completely the wrong direction for somebody planting a bomb at the courthouse.”

  THIRTY

  Harris didn’t offer McNulty a lift, so he walked back to where he’d parked his car last night. Round the back of the CVS and Petco. The walk was only half a mile but it gave him time to think. He had a lot to think about. The sun was in his face all the way along Summer Street so he was squinting when he passed the District Court and crossed the street into the CVS parking lot. White smoke and steam still drifted out of the gaping hole in the side of the courts building, a hole protected by crime-scene tape and a cop standing guard. The cloud hung in the air like a speech balloon waiting for some words. McNulty was trying to figure what the words should be when he changed his mind. Forget the car. He did the cop thing instead and went into Dunkin. He preferred it when it had been Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Looking out from Dunkin’s corner location next to the CVS Pharmacy, McNulty scrutinized the real courthouse over a latte and a donut. The same thing came to mind that he’d been thinking all the way from Police Headquarters: it didn’t make any sense to shoot a fake judge and blow up the real District Court. There was no way Judge Reynolds was going to be swayed by threats or intimidation. If anything, trying to sway him just made it more likely the porn syndicate would get a harsher sentence when they were found guilty. No sense at all.

  He turned in his seat and looked at the faux courthouse, the west wing of Chester Brook Orphanage that had been transformed into a passable replica of the real courthouse. Right now, it even had the same crime-scene tape. The windows had been boarded up after the explosion, but the set dressing was still the same. Larry’s team had done a good job but not good enough to fool a hitman. The same hitman who hadn’t been fooled into following McNulty last night but had used the distraction to blow up the real courts building.

  That was the thing sticking in McNulty’s craw. The gunman had been clever enough to use McNulty as a decoy and set the explosives, but he’d used the distraction to commit a pointless act. It was as if the wanton destruction had been an end unto itself. Like shooting a group of strangers for no good reason. McNulty had been a cop long enough to know that some people just got off on being nasty bastards, but his experience was that they weren’t usually this sophisticated. It made McNulty’s subterfuge feel even more stupid, trying to lure the shooter in with a promise of collecting hidden footage.

  He took a drink of his coffee but left the donut. He wasn’t really a donut kind of guy, especially after breakfast at the police station. He had another swallow then remembered the recording he’d made while trying to catch the gunman on camera. He took his phone out and prepared to delete his foolishness but decided to have a quick look at it instead. He clicked through the screens until he found the recording, then hit play.

  Grainy black and white video sprang to life. It was black and white because he’d started the recording when it was still dark in the back room. The images weren’t widescreen cinema quality. The phone had been wedged into his top pocket so it had filmed in portrait mode, not landscape. The sound was muffled. He turned it down slightly so nobody else could hear.

  The picture changed from dark nothingness to show the light through the door, the figure silhouetted against the courtroom. The angle was tilted to one side. The camera wasn’t steady like the Arriflex. There was a distinct click of McNulty’s fingers then brilliant white light flooded the room and burned out the image for a second until the phone adjusted its exposure. The surprise on Jon Harris’s face looked comical but then everything exploded into sharp, juddering movements. The lens was pointing at the ground one second then the ceiling the next. It showed arms and legs and the occasional blurred face, then the room lights came on and Larry Unger said, “Okay Vince, you got him. No need to break his arm.” There were a few more shuddering moves and the video ended.

  McNulty clicked back to the file screen and his finger hovered over the delete button. He stopped. Something was crawling about in the back of his mind, but it wouldn’t come into the light. He put the phone on the table and took a bite of his donut. It was quite nice so he took another bite then, swilled it down with lukewarm latte.

  What was he missing?

  He looked out at the District Court then turned toward the movie set. He was
n’t sure if it was the shooting or the bombing that was playing on his mind. The morning sun baked out of another clear blue sky. Traffic moved up and down Linden Street, regular cars this time, no panel vans.

  He thought about the explosion then discounted it. He’d had no involvement, apart from being an unwitting decoy. He closed his eyes and thought about the day of the shooting. His discussion with Larry about superhero movies and their treatment of death as a passing phase rectified with any kind of anti-Kryptonite gizmo to change the story. Amy’s smile and the fire extinguisher. The blood seeping from under the door and the discarded Arriflex.

  The Arriflex, a better recording device than McNulty’s phone but not the only thing taking pictures that day. He thought about Randy Severino and his job as First AC. In the same way that McNulty’s job as technical adviser involved several other roles, Randy Severino had done more than handle the Arriflex.

  McNulty finished his coffee, picked up his phone and went to find his car.

  THIRTY-ONE

  McNulty found Larry outside the day’s shooting location, The Chateau restaurant on School Street. He was standing under the wide red awning that read, “Italian Family Dining.” Big red letters down one side of the building offered, “Function Facilities.” There were so many power cables overhead that the telephone poles looked like the rigging on a sailing ship. A transformer high up on the pole outside the front door was so heavy it leaned to one side under its weight. Larry looked like he was sagging under too much weight as well. McNulty parked in the lot next door and joined the producer under the awning.

  “What’s up?”

  Larry came out of his private thoughts and looked at McNulty. “They’re thinking of pulling the location.”

  McNulty jerked his chin at the restaurant. “The owners?”

  Larry frowned. “After the shooting.”

  McNulty looked at the traditional Italian Restaurant. It was old-school red brick with arched windows and smoked glass. A family place, not a pizza joint. The interior looked dark and busy. “They’re Italian. They’re probably worried Al Pacino’s gonna come out of the toilet and whack some guy at the table.”

  “That’s what we’re filming.”

  “It’s that scene today? The Godfather scene?”

  Larry looked hurt. “It’s not from The Godfather. It’s an homage.”

  “Yeah, like the shootout at the quarry was an homage to Dirty Harry.”

  “It was.”

  “They nearly sued us when that movie came out.”

  Larry shrugged. “They didn’t though, did they? Because anybody seeing it was reminded of Clint Eastwood. Ain’t no such thing as bad publicity.”

  McNulty waved toward the front door. “How d’you say that in Italian?”

  “This ain’t funny.”

  McNulty became serious. “Neither is this.” He led Larry around the corner. “What else was Randy doing for you?”

  Larry’s default setting was righteous indignation. It was so ingrained in him that if he was asked anything vaguely accusatory, he turned on the pained expression and sad-eyed look that even the last puppy in the pet shop window couldn’t match. McNulty knew Larry too well to fall for that.

  “Don’t give me that lost-dog look. I’m not suggesting he was selling your sister or anything. What was his other job?”

  Larry visibly relaxed. “You mean like you with the stunts and security? Like that?”

  “I mean apart from Second Unit.”

  “We can’t afford to shoot Second Unit.”

  Second Unit was a separate crew who filmed action that didn’t involve the principal cast, although it sometimes used the main actors, but not in dialogue scenes. Titanic Productions cut costs by doing everything with the main unit. McNulty held up his hands. “Second Camera then.”

  “The handheld stuff?”

  “Apart from the Arriflex, what else did he do?”

  Larry’s face lit up. He got it now. “You mean behind the scenes?”

  McNulty nodded. “I know he’s not the official stills photographer, but yes.”

  Larry looked more at ease now that he knew McNulty wasn’t accusing him of anything. “Candid behind the scenes photos. Cast and crew. That kind of thing.”

  McNulty thought he knew the answer to this next question. “But you didn’t give him an extra camera.”

  Larry feigned shock. “Do you know how much a good stills camera costs? Christ Almighty. I’ve only just upped the budget for an Arriflex.”

  McNulty kept his voice calm despite feeling excited. “So he took them on his phone, right?”

  Larry nodded. “Ideal for just snapping away in between scenes.”

  McNulty looked at the producer. “And he was snapping away on the courtroom set.”

  Larry’s face froze as realization dawned. “Reverse angles.”

  McNulty nodded. “Toward the back doors.”

  Larry almost whimpered. “When the gunman came in.”

  McNulty felt a wave of inspiration. “On a sim card you could hide in your pocket. Or the spine of a hotel Bible.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  McNulty appeased the owner of The Chateau with a promise that the faux-courthouse shooting was a case of mistaken identity and that nobody was going to attack a restaurant renowned for Italian Family Dining. The Italian with the Boston accent seemed more worried that the movie assassin coming out the toilet might offend Al Pacino. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s gonna mistake him for Pacino.”

  With the location secured, preparations for filming got underway. Lights were set up and reflectors moved in place. The crew placed squibs on the victim at the table and the armorer loaded blanks into the snub nose Smith & Wesson .38. Amy Moore touched up the victim’s makeup.

  Larry was ecstatic. McNulty took him to one side. “Okay. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn.”

  They went in McNulty’s car, Larry fidgeting like a nervous schoolgirl at the thought of lying to the police.

  “You’re not lying. Just not explaining fully.”

  McNulty pulled into a visitor parking slot on the side of police headquarters and turned the engine off. He shifted in his seat so he could see Larry and the main entrance. “Think of it as an elevator pitch. You’ve got thirty seconds to sell your story. Your story being, as Severino’s boss you’ve come to claim his property.”

  Larry didn’t look convinced. “They’ll let me do that?”

  “No, but we’ll find out if they’ve got his phone.”

  Larry looked at McNulty. “You’re coming with me though.”

  “Sure. I’m your police liaison.”

  Larry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He linked the fingers of both hands and flexed them until the knuckles cracked. McNulty kept his voice calm and reassuring.

  “That’s it. Get in character.” He took the keys out of the ignition and opened his door. “Let’s go to work.”

  The officer at the front desk didn’t have the authority to release the deceased’s personal belongings so he called the only person who did. After fifteen minutes of Larry fretting in the waiting area it was no surprise who came through the door.

  “You just can’t keep away can you?” Jon Harris stood in the doorway. “They stopped serving breakfast two hours ago.”

  The Detectives Bureau was busier today. McNulty was beginning to think Harris was the only plain-clothes cop working, but two other detectives were leafing through files at the far end of the office. Another was on the phone when Harris escorted the producer and his technical adviser to the desk near the window. There were no marked units in the parking lot. Everybody was out working the streets except the detectives who were trying to solve the multiple homicide and the bombing.

  “Can I get you a coffee?”

  Larry sat down. McNulty pulled up a chair from the next desk. “It’s good. But add plenty of sugar.”

  Harris paused at the coffee machine. “It�
��s passable, but it keeps you awake working the nightshift.”

  Larry shook his head. McNulty held his hands up. No. Harris didn’t make one for himself and sat opposite his visitors instead.

  “So? You want Randy Severino’s property.”

  Larry transformed into the confident studio head that he was. “He was a tragic loss.”

  Harris pulled a manila folder toward himself and squared it front and center on his desk. He didn’t open it. “You mother everybody who works for you?”

  Larry puffed out his chest. “Titanic Productions is a very close-knit community.”

  Harris tapped the folder. “What I’m getting at is, unless you’re his mother, only relatives can claim his personal possessions.” He shrugged. “His father, I meant. You’re not his father are you?”

  Larry proved why he was so good in studio negotiations. “I have power of attorney for everybody working at Titanic Productions.”

  Harris flipped open the folder and sifted through the papers before stopping at the property list. He looked at the producer, not McNulty. “That’s fine if your mother passed away and you’re after her diamond earrings. When a guy has his neck broken and gets dumped in the river.” He raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s a murder investigation. And nobody gets nothing in a murder investigation. Until I find out who did it.”

  He glared at Larry. “You’re not going to tell me who did it are you?”

  McNulty wanted to step in but this had to come from Larry. The producer kept his cool and leaned forward. “Certain items of equipment are the property of Titanic Productions.” He put added steel into his voice. “And I am the owner of Titanic Productions.”

  Harris didn’t retreat. “And this is still a murder inquiry. So you get nothing.”

  Larry impressed McNulty by using lateral thinking. “Can you at least tell me if the equipment was found with the body?”