Tracking Shot

by Colin Campbell

  He walked along the hallway toward the lobby and the courtroom. Shafts of sunlight angled down from the tall windows and turned the lobby into a blazing furnace of color. It was the epitome of that walking-into-the-light moment. The makeup chair still lay on its side between the double doors. He took a deep breath and walked to the door. There was no attempt to be quiet. His footsteps echoed through the silence. He shifted his weight and flexed his arms. The bags were heavy. He didn’t want his arms becoming stiff for when he’d need to move fast.

  Another pause. Another nudge of the door with the sports bag. Then he stepped into the killing ground and let the choices take care of themselves.

  Cold hard eyes watched the shadowy figure enter the courtroom. Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight from the tall windows, lending weight and substance to a room that was really just an annex of the orphanage. Cold eyes watched the figure stand in the doorway then walk to the center aisle and turn right. The heavy tripod was still in the middle of the room. The judge’s bench was still a solid presence in a make-believe world. The bullet holes and splintered woodwork made it all real. People had died here. The cold-eyed observer had killed them.

  The gunman raised his weapon in both hands and sighted along the barrel. “Stop.”

  The figure stopped and looked toward the voice. The big leather chair behind the judge’s bench creaked as the gunman swiveled for a better angle. He rested one elbow on top of the judge’s bench and adjusted his aim. Dead center. Most secure place to shoot anyone. Center mass. No headshots. No trying to wing him in the arm. Kill shot. The only way to shoot.

  “Turn to me.” The figure turned full frontal, presenting the widest target. “Forward.”

  He could see the man in black behind the judge’s bench but the shafts of sunlight didn’t reach that far. The gunman was just a vague shape in the shadows at the front of the room. There was no telltale click of the hammer being cocked or the slide forcing a round into the chamber because the gun was already loaded and ready to fire. He felt exposed and vulnerable and foolish for letting himself get talked into this.

  “I said forward.”

  He nodded and negotiated the fallen chairs and medical detritus from the original shooting, knowing that if he didn’t act soon there was going to be another shooting, right now. He hefted the bags in both hands and gave them a little swing to build up momentum. He passed from one shaft of sunlight to another. There was a brief moment when he was in shadow himself. He gripped the bags tightly.

  The judge’s bench bulked up in front of him. He saw the pale shapes of the face and hands. He imagined rather than saw the gun pointing straight at his chest. The moment of shadow stretched as he slowed down. Any moment now he was going to find out if he’d made the right choice. He didn’t want obscurity or sudden movement to affect the gunman’s aim so he took another step forward so he looked like Jesus at the crucifixion carrying two sports bags. Glowing motes of dust glimmered around his head. He wondered if he should say something. Ask where the girl was? But if he spoke then the game would be up.

  The game was up anyway—as soon as he stepped into the last shaft of sunlight so close to the judge’s bench that the gunman got a good look at his face and realized it wasn’t Vince McNulty. There was no hesitation. The gunman fired twice in quick succession, center mass, and shot Jerry Solomon in the chest.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Harlan DeVries’s directions were clear, concise and accurate. McNulty came out of the narrow passageway that had once linked the servants’ quarters to the main house—back when the orphanage had been a wealthy family home—and entered the room behind the judge’s bench. From inside the room, the door he’d entered through didn’t appear to be a door at all, but simply a section of the wood paneling that looked no different from the rest of the wall.

  “I said forward.”

  McNulty heard the command through the door to the courtroom and knew he was running out of time. Solomon was already in the building. McNulty cursed himself for getting one of the turns wrong, despite DeVries’s description over the phone of the secret passageway. He moved quickly, keeping low, despite being shrouded in darkness. The gunman had left the door to the room behind him ajar to provide an easy escape if things went wrong. McNulty peered through the gap and saw Solomon move between two shafts of sunlight. From light into the dark.

  A shift of position gave McNulty an angle on the gunman, but what he saw didn’t fill him with confidence. The judge’s chair creaked. The gunman rested one elbow on the bench and sighted along the barrel. Solomon came back into the light and McNulty held his breath. He wondered how good a look the gunman had gotten of him at the armored truck robbery. Distance was a factor, but daylight made the viewing clearer.

  Gunshots answered McNulty’s question. Two to the chest. Jerry Solomon was blown back off his feet, dropping the bags as he was twisted into an untidy heap on the floor, half in a death tangle and half in a fetal position. McNulty snatched the prop gun from the back of his belt and shouldered open the door.

  He was too slow. The gunman had already swiveled with steady aim and calm eyes. He hadn’t been caught by surprise and he wasn’t intimidated by McNulty’s gun. He shook his head without affecting his aim.

  “Really? You’re gonna shoot me with a popgun and blanks?” He firmed his stare and tightened his grip. “Put it away before you hurt yourself.”

  McNulty stuck the gun back under his belt. He felt lightheaded and short of breath. Solomon lay still on the floor, just another victim in a room that had already seen too many. “That’s a lot of dead people for a million dollars.”

  The gunman braced his legs so the chair wouldn’t swivel. “You ever had a million dollars?”

  McNulty shrugged. “I know the average house price is a quarter-mill. Depending where you buy it. If you buy one each, won’t leave you much change.”

  The gunman nodded toward the sports bags lying next to Solomon. “Different question then. You ever seen a million dollars?”

  McNulty looked at the bags. No he hadn’t, but he’d been surprised at the volume of bills in the bags. He reckoned they must have been low-denominations for the big money giveaway. They were hardly going to be throwing hundred dollar bills around. He didn’t mention what he already knew. He didn’t want to draw attention to that. “I thought it would look like more.”

  A lone siren started in response to the gunshots. Distant and slow and no doubt delayed by the chaos already swamping Waltham PD. Another siren joined it. Sirens were good. Sirens limited the time the bad guys had to check the bags and make good their escape. The downside was that they covered any smaller sounds in the confines of the courtroom, like a second wood-panel door opening or the quiet rustle of clothing as somebody entered the room and turned on the lights.

  “That’s because it is more.”

  McNulty didn’t spin around. He turned slowly. Part of his mind had been wrestling with how the gunman had known McNulty would be coming out of the secret door while the rest struggled to ensure that the gunman didn’t check the bags. The first part was answered when Harlan DeVries stepped away from the light switch.

  “Even I can’t withdraw ten million without questions being asked.”

  The second gunman stood behind his boss with one hand clamped over Tilly Carter’s mouth. The whimpering that McNulty heard came from a long time distant but a lot closer to home—his sister at Tilly’s age. In another orphanage where McNulty had failed to protect her. DeVries allowed McNulty to experience the enormity of his failure for a few moments longer before continuing.

  “And some people need paying off in cash.”

  McNulty let out a sigh. “Well, they’ve been paid off now. Let the girl go.”

  DeVries nodded for the first gunman to go fetch the bags, then moved toward McNulty. The quiet-spoken businessman had all but disappeared, replaced by a dark and evil man with contacts way beyond a children’s home and adoption agency. It w
as beginning to dawn on McNulty how DeVries had accumulated enough money to fund an orphanage and an election campaign.

  DeVries smiled a sad little smile. “Two problems I can see right off the bat.” He glanced at the five-year-old, her eyes wide with fear and panic. “One, I don’t figure she’s going to see me in quite the same light after today.” Then he turned hard eyes on McNulty. “And two, now that she’s expendable there are people willing to pay a lot of money for what she can provide.”

  Shockwaves of anger flared in McNulty’s eyes. The whole picture snapped into focus but he didn’t have time to digest it. With nothing but a prop gun loaded with blanks all he could hope for was a chest shot. DeVries saw the despair in McNulty’s eyes and his smile turned from sad to cold. He was about to drive the final nail home when the first gunman unzipped the bags.

  “What the fuck?”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Everyone turned to face the courtroom. Middle of the floor. In a clearing where Solomon’s body had knocked the chairs aside. The kneeling figure unzipped the second bag and shoved his hand deep inside its folds. “What the double-fuck?”

  In the movies the dummy bag drop was always packed with neatly trimmed newspaper in money wraps with real banknotes on top. McNulty had gone for weight and bulk so it was simply stacks of folded newspapers lining the bottom and a scattering of children’s play money filling the rest. The Monopoly money was more of a joke because nobody was going to mistake it for real cash. The gunman looked at DeVries. DeVries looked at McNulty.

  McNulty returned the look. “Oops.” He shrugged. “I don’t suppose the people you’re paying off will take a check?”

  The sirens were growing louder as they got closer. Coming along Main Street from downtown before turning into Linden Street. There wasn’t much time. The gunshots had reduced their window. The fake money had forced their hands. Whatever they were going to do, they’d have to do it fast. DeVries didn’t look worried. He waved a hand toward the girl. “No. But they might take a deposit.”

  Again the anger flushed McNulty’s neck but he kept it under control. Blue lights flashed in the distance and the sirens fell silent. The cavalry were here. They didn’t need the sirens anymore. All they needed to do was find the source of the gunfire. The gunman got up and drew his weapon. He kept his distance but aimed squarely at McNulty’s chest then tracked down to avoid the Kevlar vest.

  DeVries nodded his approval then turned the lights off.

  Whisky Adam Six slowed to a crawl as the marked unit drove past the Waltham District Court building. The crime scene tape stood out in the evening gloom as the sun dipped below the clouds, moving in from the west. The second marked unit drove to the far end of Linden Street, then doubled back.

  The thing about responding to reports of shots fired is that unless you’ve got accurate information, the shots could have come from anywhere. And they could start again at any moment. So until they identified the location, it was a slow crawl and keep your eyes peeled. And your ears—hence, no sirens.

  After all the excitement over the last few days, the obvious first choice was the courthouse. Somebody had blown up the hanging judge’s courtroom. It wasn’t a stretch to think that the gunshots might be related. The driver lowered his window and listened. His partner scanned the buildings. There was no sign of movement. There was no sound apart from their engine throbbing in low gear.

  They looked at both sides of the street but doubted anyone was shooting up the CVS or Petco. The next most obvious candidate was the fake movie courthouse at Chester Brook Orphanage. The scene of the other shooting almost a week ago.

  McNulty tracked the blue flashing lights through the courtroom windows. They slowed to a crawl farther along Linden Street. He put himself in their minds, uniformed patrolmen responding to a report of shots fired. The first place they’d check would be Judge Reynolds’s shattered courtroom, the Second District Court of Eastern Middlesex.

  McNulty caught his breath then looked at DeVries. “Shitty death.” He let out a long slow sigh. “This was never a distraction to set up the robbery, was it?”

  DeVries turned steady eyes on McNulty. It was getting dark inside the fake courtroom but there was still enough light to see shapes and faces. The back room was a pool of darkness with the second gunman still holding onto Tilly so she couldn’t scream. DeVries raised his eyebrows. “There was an element of that.”

  McNulty shook his head. “Secondary consideration. And it wasn’t about sending a message to the judge heading up the porn trial.”

  DeVries watched McNulty figure it out. The blue lights flashed outside the front doors. McNulty paused. DeVries prodded. “And?”

  McNulty glanced at Tilly then back at DeVries. “The message was for the gang on trial. Not to bring you into it, since you provide the girls for their industry.”

  DeVries smiled. “Europeans are very popular. The UK, too.”

  McNulty felt cold but had to ask. “Susan?”

  DeVries shook his head. “A legitimate businessman needs a legitimate business. The adoption agency is legitimate. Susan is one of my greatest successes. Married well. Good standard of living. Perfect advertising. All very altruistic.”

  McNulty’s eyes turned hard. “Until they draw back the curtain and see what you’re really doing.”

  “You won’t be drawing back any curtains.”

  “Didn’t close any doors, either.”

  DeVries couldn’t hide the flicker of concern as he glanced toward the double doors at the back and thought about the hallway to the side door, which they’d left open for Jerry Solomon.

  The patrol car crawled past the main doors of the fake movie courtroom. The crime scene tape was still intact. The doors were closed. The car eased along the front of the building. The driver scanned left and his partner scanned right. Chester Brook Orphanage on one side and Aston Martin of NE on the other. The car showroom was closed and dark, the parking lot empty apart from one car in an angled parking spot. “Stray car.”

  The driver stopped and followed his partner’s gaze. “Run the plates.” Then he turned back to the orphanage. His eyes followed the wall past the main entrance and on to the side door.

  DeVries locked eyes with the gunman standing between the open bags, then focused on the back wall and shifted his eyes quickly to the left, indicating the hallway that led to the outside side door. The gunman understood the question and gave a barely noticeable nod to his boss. “Locked.”

  McNulty wondered when that had happened, then remembered the few minutes when his attention had been on DeVries while the gunman was supposed to be checking the bags. He must have scurried along the hallway and locked the door before returning and unzipping the moneybags. The gunman stepped sideways to change the angle of his aim. He didn’t want his boss getting hit by a stray. McNulty watched the blue lights swirling outside. No forward movement. Stationary. Checking his car?

  The partner typed in the licence number on the laptop that was clamped to the dashboard. He ran the search through local databases to see if it was stolen, wanted or linked to any crimes before checking for ownership. It wasn’t stolen or wanted or linked to any crimes. The owner details flashed on the screen. “Titanic Productions, Boston, Massachusetts.”

  The driver looked at the car. “The movie people filming in the courthouse?”

  The partner jerked a thumb toward the orphanage. “Not the real courthouse. Worried about damage, I guess.”

  “Yeah well, look how that worked out.”

  The second patrol car came back along the street and stopped beside the first, driver’s side to driver’s side, the way all uniformed officers parked to chat when they were on patrol. There was nothing untoward at the far end. There was no sign of disturbance here. They checked with the dispatcher but there was no more information on the caller, just a passing motorist. “False call, good intent. Let’s call it a day.”

  The blue lights were turned off and both c
ars spun around and headed back toward Main Street.

  McNulty saw the blue flashing lights go dark and heard the engines move away. He let out a sigh. Maybe he should have told Jerry to leave the car doors open because then the police would have had to make further inquiries, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. He couldn’t begrudge Solomon anything since he’d taken two in the chest for the team. He was a stuntman but stuntmen didn’t take live fire, even if they were wearing bulletproof vests and elbow pads. There was a moan from the floor, and Jerry began to uncurl.

  The patrol cars moved away from the front of the building. The gunman risked a quick glance at the man he’d shot. McNulty looked at Tilly, standing in the back-room doorway with a hand clamped across her mouth. Their eyes met and he feigned clamping his teeth. Tilly blinked.

  The patrol cars would be too far away if McNulty didn’t act soon. There was only one card left to play: distraction then send up a flare. He didn’t have a flare but he did have the next best thing.

  Tilly bit the hand hard. The man yelped and released her. The gunman aiming at McNulty couldn’t help looking, and that was all the time McNulty needed. He whipped the gun out of his belt and fired three blanks directly at the gunman’s face.

  FIFTY-SIX

  “I suppose it was better than charging in with a fire extinguisher.”

  “That wasn’t funny the first time you said it.”

  “No. And it isn’t funny that you keep fucking up at playing the cop you haven’t been for years. So let’s not get tetchy about the complete fucking disaster you just laid at my door.”