13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pittman and Hirsch sat in their car drinking coffee in the 7-Eleven parking lot across from the bus bench. For the first three shootings, they’d left the scene immediately, heading to their next location. This time they stayed to see the chaos from their actions.

  Police cars, ambulances, and firetrucks parked at all angles. Cops, paramedics, and firefighters were walking around, seeking something to do. No one was in charge. Not that they’d left any evidence because they hadn’t come within at least a hundred yards of the victim.

  They watched a guy in a stylish suit head across the street. He had his eye on something behind the drive-in. They sipped their coffees and watched the cop about one-hundred yards west of them. He never wavered from the path he was taking until just before the fence. Then he circled wide around something and stared back at the park bench.

  “Son of a bitch.” Pittman held his coffee halfway to his mouth. “He figured out where we were parked.”

  “How’d he do that?” Hirsch asked.

  “Hell if I know.” Pittman sipped coffee as he watched the guy in the suit step about ten yards back from where Hirsch had fired.

  “Shit,” Hirsch said. “He figured out the line of the shot.”

  “He’s a shooter,” Pittman said. “A cop who knows his stuff.”

  The cop called two uniformed guys over and swung his arm in an arc around him.

  “He wants them to protect that area.” Pittman started the car and dropped it into gear. “Time to go.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Brad headed back across Sixteenth Avenue, Briscoe caught up to him. “We need to talk.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just heard on the radio that the lady, Kellie Singer, didn’t make it. She was dead on arrival at the hospital.”

  “Shit.” Brad stopped in the middle of the street and ran his fingers through his hair. “What is going on?”

  Briscoe shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “I’m having trouble processing this. A busy month would be four homicides. But four in two-and-a-half hours?”

  “I’ve got someone you need to talk to. Maybe she can give you something to work with.”

  “I need to catch up with Griffin.”

  “That can wait. You need to talk to her this second.”

  Brad recognized the intensity in Briscoe’s eyes and the set jaw. There was no sense arguing. He followed Briscoe to a cruiser. A lady sat on the back seat with her legs out onto the asphalt.

  Brad knelt. “I’m Detective Coulter. What’s your name?”

  “Brenda.”

  Brad nodded. “Sergeant Briscoe wants me to talk to you.”

  “I think I saw something.”

  “The gunman?”

  She shook her head. “No. After the shot. A white van raced away, hitting the curb. The tires squealed as he raced off.”

  “What kind of van?”

  “I don’t know anything about vans. It was all white. I guess it was like servicemen use. You know, like plumbers or electricians. Maybe larger than that.”

  “Did you see anything on the side? Writing? A logo?”

  Again, she shook her head. “Just the back of it as he drove away.”

  “Which direction did he go?”

  She pointed to Sixteenth Avenue. “He headed east.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago, I’d guess.”

  “Did you see the license plate?”

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I’m not much help.”

  Brad stood. “You’ve done a great job. Please give these officers your contact information, and they’ll get you to write a witness statement.”

  Brad grabbed a Coke and Griffin a coffee from the 7-Eleven and then headed to the picnic tables behind Peters’ drive-in. They sat on opposite sides of the table.

  Griffin gazed to the east, absently sipping his coffee. They sat in silence for a few minutes. They needed to catch their breath. They had been on the go for a few hours, but it felt like days.

  Brad stared at the scarred tabletop. For years, patrons had carved their names and dates in the wood. The usual hearts with initials. A few less appropriate words, too. Someone had taken the time to tout their superiority, carving in large, deep letters, “I am that I am.” He shook his head and rubbed his thumb across the condensation on the Coke can. “What the hell is going on, Griffin?”

  Griffin set down his empty coffee cup, then slammed his hand over the cup. He shook his head. “I don’t have a clue. I’ve never seen anything like this. Not here. Not sure any city has. Not four shootings in two-and-a-half hours.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth several times, then shook his head again. “I just don’t know.”

  “How do we piece something like this together?”

  Griffin leaned back and sighed. “We start at the beginning and take one piece at a time.”

  “That will take a long time. What if we don’t have a long time? If this is the same guy, what if he strikes again?”

  Griffin shrugged. “We can’t control what he does. Maybe he strikes in another hour. Then we’ll know he’s staying active. Maybe nothing happens in an hour, but two hours later someone else is shot. We can only control what we do. Each time he strikes we get closer to catching him. We’ll have lots of help. Cops will bring us thousands of puzzle pieces. But it stops with us. We need to start with the first piece, then finish the puzzle. The sooner we do, the better.”

  “We will need a lot of room—phones, TVs, you name it.”

  Griffin stood. “Look, I need to call my wife and tell her I won’t be home, maybe not for a few days or for a few hours of sleep. Who’s watching Lobo?”

  “I’ll get Annie to take care of him.”

  “After I talk to my wife, then I’ll start working on getting us a command center.” Griffin glanced across the street. “I’ll leave you to deal with the deputy chief.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brad stopped beside a black town car parked at the curb. The back door opened, and Deputy Chief Archer stepped out. He surveyed the scene, then peered at Brad.

  Archer’s eyes were black disks of coal. “Bring me up to speed.”

  “We have a highly active shooter.”

  “I had that part figured out.” Archer’s eyes bored into Brad.

  A cop in dress uniform stepped beside Archer and stared at Brad. “You’re Coulter.”

  “That’s right.” Brad smirked. That puts you on the fast track to detective.

  “I’m Llewelyn Carew. I am the Public Information Officer.”

  “The what—”

  “Media relations—the guy who talks to the press.”

  “Another change?” Brad asked. “Give us a minute, Lew. I’m talking to the deputy chief.”

  “Not Lew, Llewelyn. I’m here with the deputy. We’re going to do a press conference.”

  “At a crime scene? No frickin’ way,” Brad said. “There are too many people here as it is.”

  Archer held up his hand. “It is the wish of the mayor that the press is fully briefed on this situation.”

  Brad started to speak, then saw the glare from Archer.

  “Please continue, Detective,” Archer said.

  Brad glanced at Carew. “Right. We have four murders. All were shot, likely from a high-powered rifle. We have no idea who is doing this or why he targeted these four people.”

  “Two were at gas stations,” Carew said. “Are they targeting gas stations?”

  “And two of them were not at gas stations,” Brad said. “It’s too early to speculate on anything. We’ll keep interviewing witnesses, the Crime Scene Unit will gather evidence, and we’ll analyze it.”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “None at this time.”

  “You haven’t given me anything to tell the press.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing to tell.” Brad’s jaw clenched. “Look, Lew, thi
s is four murders in two-and-a-half hours.”

  “The mayor will want more than this.”

  “When we have something, I’ll let you and the mayor know.”

  “He won’t like this.”

  “Mayor Kearse knows how this works. If he were here, I’d tell him myself. If you don’t mind, we’ve got four murders to solve.”

  Carew huffed and stalked toward some cops gathered at a cruiser.

  “Public Information Officer?” Brad asked.

  Archer nodded. “It was the mayor’s idea. He felt there were times when he was a reporter that cops were deliberately obstructive and kept things from the press that the public needed to know. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “I have the highest level of respect for the press. Even when they are drunk out of their minds.”

  Brad struck out with the witnesses other than the lady who saw the white van. In the last half hour, he’d seen perhaps a hundred white vans drive by. He leaned against his car and scrutinized the crime scene again.

  Briscoe strode to the car. “We got a crowd gathering down the road. Lots of reporters and camera crews.”

  Brad stared at the gathering crowd. “They’re doing the morning press conference.”

  “What the hell are they going to say?” Briscoe asked.

  “Hell if I know. I told Archer it was too soon. That we had nothing. The media information guy—”

  “Public Information Officer—”

  “Yeah, the shithead PIO is a piece of work. Where did they get him?”

  “He graduated as a cop about three years ago,” Briscoe said. “He created press releases for the mayor’s campaign and then convinced the mayor he wasn’t getting good information from us. Kearse put the pressure on the chief, and voila, we have a media spokesman who is a direct conduit to the mayor, and he was promoted to sergeant.”

  “Sergeant? Nothing good will come from this.”

  Briscoe tugged Brad’s arm. “Let’s head over and see what he has to say.”

  They headed down the road and stood on the sidewalk. Sergeant Carew stepped in front of dozens of reporters with extended microphones and a half-dozen television cameras.

  “Good morning. I am Sergeant Llewelyn Carew, Public Information Officer. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting all of you, but I will get to that. Thank you for gathering for this impromptu press conference. Deputy Chief Nick Archer is here with me. I want to bring you up to date on the events of this morning.”

  Carew gave brief descriptions of the four shootings and even had most of the facts straight. To his credit, he kept the information brief without many details.

  “Carew is smooth,” Brad said.

  Briscoe smirked. “Slicker than pig shit.”

  Members of the press asked for clarification on the time of the shootings and the extent of injuries. They asked for the names of the victims, and Carew said they would not be released pending notification of the next of kin.

  A reporter next to a camera raised his hand. “Sergeant Carew, I’m Angus Ferguson, CFCN.”

  Carew smiled. “Yes, your former reporter is my boss.”

  Ferguson chuckled. “Please give my regards to Mayor Kearse.”

  Brad’s head swiveled toward Ferguson, and he did a double-take. He gave the impression of being a professor—salt-and-pepper hair and beard, tweed jacket with a green-and-blue tartan tie. All that was missing was the pipe. But he spoke in an annoying, high-pitched, whiny tone. Brad expected that voice with different clothing.

  “Annoying voice, huh?” Briscoe said.

  Brad ground his teeth. “Yeah.”

  Ferguson nodded at Carew and gave his best used-car-salesman smile.

  “My question is: do the police have any leads?”

  “Excellent question, Angus. Just before I stepped up here, I learned a credible witness saw a white van speed out of this parking lot immediately after the shooting. He bounced over the curb and the tires screeched as he raced away to the east. It is likely that the shooter was in the van and fired the fatal shot from there.”

  Ferguson frowned. “I’m confused. My understanding was that it was not known it was a shooting until at least ten minutes after the first officer arrived. How did she know the van was related to a shooting?”

  “Again, excellent follow-up question. At the time, she did not know of the shooting, but after excellent interrogation by Detective Coulter,”—Carew pointed to his left—“our detective realized the connection.”

  “What the heck,” Brad said. “You and Griffin are the two people I told about the van. Where did he get this from?”

  “There’s probably fifty cops here. Any one of them could have overheard. It’s possible she was interviewed by another cop.”

  “It must have been the cops I asked to get a statement from her.”

  “What’re their names?” Briscoe asked. “I’ll have their asses.”

  “I don’t have a clue. They were dressed in blue on blue.”

  They watched Carew conclude the press conference. “That’s all I have at this time. I will have frequent press conferences to keep you informed. If you have further questions, I’d suggest you talk with Detective Coulter.”

  Oh, damn.

  Brad grabbed Briscoe. “Let’s get out of here.”

  It was too late. The press flocked to Brad and Briscoe, circling them. They shoved microphones in front of Brad, and questions were coming from all directions.

  Brad held up his hand. “Sergeant Carew has given you all the information we can release. As he said, when we have information, he will update you. We are early in this investigation and a lot has happened in the past two-and-a-half hours. Thank you.”

  He tried to push through the reporters, but they wouldn’t move.

  Angus Ferguson stepped in front of Brad and blocked his path. “Detective Coulter, I understand you are recently back from leave. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied tersely and again tried to push past Ferguson, who stepped to the side to block Brad again.

  “After the tragic loss of your fiancée and child, it must be difficult to come back to work and face four murders. Are you sure you’re up to this challenge?”

  Brad stepped close to Ferguson and cocked his head to the side. “Nothing I like more than a challenge.”

  Ferguson tried to step back, but he had no room as other reporters pressed closer.

  “I have some work to do. Have a great day.” Brad headed down the block.

  When they were well away from the reporters, Briscoe asked, “You okay?”

  Brad shrugged and straightened his jacket. “I’m fine. He’s a pushy son of a bitch.”

  “You handled it well. I’m not under scrutiny. You are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Archer knows the Brad of earlier this year,” Briscoe said. “Not the Brad of today. Why do you think you’re in Homicide with Griffin?”

  “Back to my position before …”

  Briscoe frowned. “Griffin asked for you because you’re good. Well, you were. The jury is still out. Archer is watching. Hell, the entire department is watching. Understand?”

  Brad nodded and stared at his feet. Steele strode over.

  “Hey, you okay?” Steele cocked his head.

  “Would you guys stop asking me that? I’m going to snap.”

  Steele stepped back a few paces. “I get it. Just concerned. What happened with the reporter?”

  “Ferguson is an in-your-face kind of guy.”

  “Yeah, well, Kearse is the mayor and we’ve got to deal with Ferguson,” Steele said. “Walk away. You always did with Kearse. I know he pissed you off every time. But you did what you do best, you outwitted him. You out-sarcasmed him, if that’s a word.”

  Brad snorted. “I don’t think it is.”

  “Well, it should be. Worth a lot in Scrabble. Don’t take Ferguson’s bait. Debate him, put him on the spot. Make him backtrack. You know,
Kearse admired that about you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Kearse loved to verbally duel with you. Ferguson is no Kearse and no match for you.”

  Brad nodded. “I get it. Give me a few minutes.” Brad headed over to the picnic tables behind the drive-in. He liked this spot. He could think here. Sometimes the crowds were overwhelming. He felt suffocated and craved space.

  The last thing he needed was Archer watching too closely. If Archer called Dr. Keller to check on Brad’s progress, he’d be on permanent leave. Luckily, Keller was in Hawaii.

  “Detective Coulter?” a soft voice called.

  Brad swung around on the table. Standing about ten feet away was a lady, her brown eyes wide and flicking from side to side. Her slim body was twisted away from him for a fast escape. She appeared familiar. Long brown hair framing a heart-shaped face. She was dressed in smart business attire—skirt, jacket, and a pale-blue blouse. Lawyer? Maybe.

  “Can I help you?” Then he saw the notepad, pen and a recorder. Ah shit. “You’re a reporter.”

  “I’m Sadie Andrus. I work for CFAC TV. I have a few questions.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Andrus. I’m sure Sergeant Carew would be thrilled to talk to you.”

  She took a couple of steps back, then stopped. “We’re not all like Ferguson.”

  “I’d hope not.”

  “Not me.”

  “What makes you different?”

  She sighed. “Look. It’s difficult for me. I’m a woman.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Reporting is cutthroat and a man’s game. I have to work twice—three times as hard as they do. They do what’s worked for them in the past; they bully stories out of people. They harass them. I’m not gonna scare anyone or get away with harassment. I’ll treat you fair if you’ll treat me fair.”

  “Forgive me …”

  “Sadie.”

  “Sadie. You seem like a pleasant person and like you’re trying to do your job. I’m trying to do mine. I’ve got four murders to solve. That jackass Ferguson in my face isn’t helping me catch bad guys.”