13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  “Where are we going?” Hirsch asked.

  “Jus’ listen.” Pittman belched. “Okay, keep going on this road.” After a few minutes, Pittman pointed. “There’s a gas station. Pull in across the street and back in, so the trunk is facing across the street.”

  “Pitt, what are you planning?”

  “I’m gonna do the shooting. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  “Not a good idea, man. You’re hammered.”

  Pittman opened the door and almost fell on the pavement. He grabbed the doorframe, pulled himself upright and staggered the few steps to the back door. Hirsch jumped out of the car and helped Pittman get the shooting perch ready. Pittman squeezed his bulk through the opening. “Could you have made this smaller?”

  “I made it for me.”

  “I don’t think I can get back out.”

  “No problem. Let’s call it a night, find someplace to open the trunk and you can get out that way.”

  “Fuck you. Get in the front and pick out a target.”

  Hirsch climbed back into the car and adjusted the rearview mirrors. He keyed the new walkie-talkie. “Pittman, can you hear me?”

  “I can fuckin’ hear you. Stop yelling, that’s why we got these radios. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  The back of the car bounced like someone was jumping on the trunk.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Hirsch peered over his shoulder. All he saw was Pittman’s large ass wedged in the opening.

  “I’m set. Stop yappin’.”

  “There’s a car pulling in from your right. A lady is getting out of the car. Do you see her?” Her brown wavy hair, the way she moved, reminded Hirsch of his soon-to-be ex-wife.

  “Hang on.” The car bounced again. “Yeah. Yeah, I got her. She’s unscrewing the gas cap.”

  “Right. Be patient. Wait until you have a full-body target.”

  “Shut your yap. I know how to shoot.”

  “Patience …”

  The shot echoed through the car. Hirsch shivered.

  It was after 9:00 p.m. when Brad headed to his car, calling it a night. Mentally and physically exhausted, he’d try to get some sleep, but knew he’d replay Monday’s events over and over with the same questions. What had they missed? Why four killings in one day? Why those victims? Why those locations? Had they missed something, anything that could have prevented those shootings?

  The police radio still buzzed with cops pulling over white vans. One cop told dispatch the guy they’d stopped said police had already checked him out five times. The officer suggested they put police tape on any van they checked so they’d be less likely to stop white vans that had already been checked.

  Not a bad idea. You don’t realize how many white vans there are until you focus on them. It looked like every second vehicle was a white van or box truck.

  He crossed Eighth Street heading for home when dispatch announced, “All units, report of a lady down. A gas station, Kensington Road and Fourteenth Street NW. EMS is responding.”

  Oh shit. Brad’s stomach sank. No, not another.

  The radio lit up with cops answering. Brad reached for his mic, then realized he’d never find an opening to talk. He swung up Tenth Street to Kensington Road and sped up as he headed west. He arrived in the parking lot at the same time as EMS. Bystanders waved them to the north side. Several cruisers pulled in behind.

  Brad jumped out of the car and shouted, “Everyone step away from the patient and go back to your cars.”

  He pointed to two of the first cops to arrive. “Make sure the witnesses stay in their cars. No one leaves until we interview them.”

  Brad grabbed his portable radio. “Dispatch, set up a tight perimeter around the gas station. We have enough units here on scene, so don’t dispatch more. Then block all intersections within a ten-block radius. No one drives in except emergency vehicles, and no one leaves. Lock this area down. Get me Deputy Chief Archer, Detective Griffin, Sergeant Sturgeon, the Crime Scene Unit and TSU.”

  “Roger, Coulter.”

  Brad glanced around the scene. What if the shooter was still here? He might be bolder. With the cops and paramedics, there were a lot of targets. “Dispatch, I need TSU here.” He pointed to a cop. “Move the ambulance close beside the paramedics.” The fire department parked behind the ambulance. He hoped that would be safe. He headed over to Amir Sharma and Jill Cook, where they worked on the lady in her mid-forties. Her eyes stared unseeing to the sky. Her stomach was soaked with blood. She scared the crap out of them when she gasped.

  Brad gasped, too. “She’s alive?”

  Sharma peered up. “We’ve stopped the bleeding, but we’re getting out of here. We need an escort to the Foothills Hospital.”

  “Sure.” Brad pointed at two cops. “You heard the paramedic—give them an escort. Have dispatch shut down the intersections between here and Foothills.”

  They nodded.

  Cook and the firefighters wheeled the patient to the ambulance.

  Sharma stood and pulled Brad to the side. “We’ve got a good chance with her. I don’t think it was a direct hit. Her stomach is open—like a knife slash. No exit wound.”

  “She was knifed. A mugging?”

  Sharma shook his head. “Hard to tell. I haven’t seen a wound like this. It seems like a slash, but it’s like she was shot across her body, not directly through mass, like the others.” Sharma rotated toward the ambulance. “I gotta go.”

  “Will she be able to answer questions?”

  “No, she’s unconscious. She’ll go straight to surgery. You won’t be able to talk to her for at least twenty-four hours.”

  Sharma jogged to the ambulance and closed the back door behind him. Sirens blared as police cruisers and the ambulance left the scene.

  Brad peered at a man, early thirties who had been holding the patient’s head.

  “I’m Detective Coulter.”

  “Rod. Rod Fradette.”

  “Did you see what happened?” Brad asked.

  Fradette glanced at the car. “She was filling her car, then I heard a ping, then she fell.”

  Brad cocked his head. “A ping, not a gunshot?”

  “The gunshot came right after.”

  It was a gunshot wound, not a stab wound. “What did you do?”

  “I ran to her, saw she was bleeding, and yelled for someone to call 911. I tried to stop the bleeding until the paramedics arrived.”

  He nodded. “Was she conscious?”

  “Yes. She was screaming and saying how her stomach hurt. Blood was pouring out. A guy gave me his sweatshirt, and I put it over her stomach and applied pressure. She kept asking what happened and saying she didn’t want to die.”

  “Did she give her name?”

  “Jolanda.”

  “Last name?”

  “Nope. Then she stopped talking.”

  Brad used his flashlight to examine the back quarter panel of her car near the gas cap. There were lots of scratches and dings, but one scratch—more pronounced than the others on the doorpost—flashed when the light shone on it.

  A dark Suburban pulled into the gas station. Steele and Zerr exited and headed to Brad.

  “Dispatch said you needed us here,” Steele said.

  “I had this uneasy feeling that maybe the shooter was still here. We protected the patient with the ambulance and a firetruck. But if he started shooting, I wanted you guys here.”

  “Where do you think the shot came from?” Zerr asked.

  “I think it might have been a ricochet.”

  Brad faced away from the gas station toward Kensington Road. “It might be the same as the others. From across the street and maybe a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards.”

  “We’ll check it out.”

  “Detective Coulter.”

  Brad faced one of the uniformed cops.

  “You should talk to the guy who was helping the paramedics again. I heard him say he saw a van drive away.”

  “Thanks.”
Brad found the good Samaritan sitting on a bench and sat beside him. “Thanks for your help. You gave her a chance.”

  He stared at the car, gas pump and blood. “I hope she’s gonna be okay.”

  Brad leaned back. “I heard you saw something else.”

  Fradette nodded. “While I was sitting here, I went over everything that happened. While I was trying to stop the bleeding, I heard lots of vehicle noises, but it’s a busy road all the time. I’m not sure why I turned, but when I did, I saw two vehicles out on the street. One was a white van; the other was a dark-colored sedan, maybe dark blue or green, a four-door. They were heading in opposite directions.”

  “When did you see them?”

  “I’m not sure. Time was both standing still and racing past. It seemed like forever for the paramedics to get here. Jolanda was fading fast.”

  “Before we got here or after?”

  “I think before, or maybe about the same time.”

  “Do you see the car here?”

  “Not the same car, but like that one.” Fradette pointed at Brad’s car.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Wednesday Day Eight

  The mayor insisted the 8:00 a.m. press conference take place on the steps of City Hall. The archaic sandstone building made an impressive backdrop with the clock tower centered behind the podium. The new mayor, Roger Kearse, wanted everyone to know he was in charge, that he had his fingerprints all over the investigation.

  That was the problem, Brad thought. The last thing they needed was a politician offering advice on a situation they had no experience with.

  When Kearse was a news reporter, he’d always treated the cops fairly, but more was at stake—his reputation and his ego.

  For the show, Kearse had pulled out all stops and cashed in favors. The chairs on the top step of City Hall were filled with federal politicians, provincial politicians, and aldermen. Deputy Chief Archer sat, arms across his chest with a sour look that shouted hemorrhoid problems. Archer had sent his staff to find Brad earlier in the morning. Luckily word reached Brad and he avoided them.

  Brad stood off to the side, close enough to hear, far enough away to go unnoticed. Then Archer’s dark eyes swept in Brad’s direction. Even from this far away, he felt the penetrating stare. This might come back to haunt him.

  Sergeant Llewelyn Carew stepped to the podium and tapped the mic. “Test. Test. Good Morning. As most of you know, I’m Sergeant Llewelyn Carew, Public Information Officer for the police. Mayor Roger Kearse has asked me to moderate this press conference and he would like to say a few words.”

  Kearse stood and approached the mic. Where Carew was tall and thin, Kearse was short and squat. He leaned toward the mic, his trademark smile in place. “Thank you, Sergeant, and thank you for the excellent job you are doing keeping the media informed.”

  Brad muttered under his breath, “Gag.”

  “I felt it was important to keep the media and the citizens up to date on the shootings and the investigation. I know we’d all like additional information, to know there were suspects, or that police had made an arrest. But remember, it is only forty-eight hours since the first shooting. It is unprecedented to have these many murders in our city. I ask that we are patient with the police. I know they are overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation, but I also have the utmost respect for them, and I know they will lead this to a successful conclusion. Arrests are imminent.”

  Oh, damn.

  “I would also like to thank representatives from the federal and provincial governments who are here supporting us today and who have guaranteed that anything we need, I just ask. I can also say the RCMP has called and will assist in any manner required.”

  Double damn.

  “Sergeant, I’ll turn the time back to you.”

  “Thank you, Mayor Kearse.” Carew surveyed the gathered media. “I can take a few questions.”

  Angus Ferguson bullied himself to the front.

  “Sergeant. The five victims were adults. Yet many citizens are expressing concern for their children’s safety as well. Are our children in danger?”

  Uh oh.

  “Children should continue to go to school and not be afraid. Starting today, we are placing police officers at the schools when the children arrive and when school is out. As well, the children are in the school all day, so I don’t see how a shooter would be able to attack.”

  Brad closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Sergeant,” Sadie Andrus called. “You said police are at the schools, morning and afternoon. Aren’t you making the cops targets? If the bullet is a .223, will their ballistic vests stop that bullet?”

  Carew leaned into the mic. “Our officers are well-trained and aware of the risks they take every day, not just this week. As we assigned officers to the schools, not one officer refused to go. There was no grumbling. The children are in good hands. A final note, the reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the shooter is twenty-five thousand thanks to the community. Information on the shooter must be called to the tip line. Please do not use 911 as our emergency lines are being overwhelmed with calls. Thank you, everyone, that is all for today.”

  Carew escorted the politicians back into City Hall.

  Brad leaned against the wall. The question about the kids had his stomach rolling. It wasn’t good enough having cops there. They weren’t talking about a guy with a knife or a handgun. He was skilled and didn’t need to get close. It was hard to know, but Brad felt the five shots had come from over a hundred yards away. Heck. Maybe two hundred and fifty yards. He glanced at the roof of City Hall and Police Headquarters. If you didn’t know what you were searching for, nothing would seem out of the ordinary. But Brad spotted the police snipers he’d positioned, just in case. He spun to cross the street to Police Headquarters.

  “Detective Coulter.”

  Dang, didn’t leave fast enough. He rubbed his face and turned. “Good morning, Ms. Andrus.”

  “Sadie.”

  “Sadie.”

  “Detective, off the record, are kids safe?”

  Brad grinned. “Off the record, I know that nothing is ever off the record.”

  Sadie laughed. “And I thought you were just a dumb cop.”

  “I spent years in the St. Louis Hotel, where Roger Kearse tried every play in the book to get information out of my TSU team and me.” Brad smirked. “He never succeeded—even on the rare times he bought us a round of beer. Very rare. Have a pleasant day.” He took a couple of steps.

  “Detective … Brad.”

  He stopped.

  “Kids aren’t safe, are they?”

  “I thought the shooting had ended Monday morning. Then there was a shooting last night. There’s still no reason to think kids are the target.” Brad sighed. “But I don’t think anyone is safe. There’s nothing in common with the victims.”

  “Do you think he’ll shoot again?”

  Brad shrugged. “I have no clue.”

  “He could target anyone, including cops.”

  “Including cops.”

  “If you could get a message out, what would you say?”

  “I wouldn’t say anything, Ms. Andrus.”

  “I promise your name will never appear.”

  His brain said, walk away. His gut said, take a chance. It might save lives. “I’d say everyone needs to change their routines. If you have to go shopping, park as close to the store as you can. Keep the car between you and the entrance. Minimize the time you are outside and exposed. At gas stations, fuel up at the inside pump with the vehicle between you and the street if possible. When it comes to kids, there are a few things that might pay off. Buses should drop kids off at the back of the schools. They should park with the bus door as close to the schools as possible. The bus will provide protection. If parents are dropping kids off, the same thing. Get to the back of the school or to a door that is not exposed to the street.”

  “Thank you,” Sadie said.

&nbs
p; Brad nodded and headed across the street. He’d either save lives or end his career. But hell, he’d ended his career a dozen times already.

  When Brad got back to the zoo, Archer was leaning against a wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Archer, in a charcoal suit, dressed like he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Griffin was sitting at his desk wiping donut powder off this blue suit jacket. “Just interviewed Jolanda D’Amore.”

  Brad set his jacket on his chair. “Great. What did she say?”

  Griffin frowned and pulled out his notebook. “Not much that will help us. She said everything happened so fast. She was standing facing her car, watching her kids, when she heard a ping and then her stomach split open and she was overwhelmed by white-hot pain. She collapsed as the blood poured out of her. The next thing she remembers is waking up in the recovery room.”

  “The witness, Fradette, talked about a ping,” Brad said.

  Griffin picked up a file. “Sturgeon gave this to me. They’ve examined D’Amore’s car. There’s a recent long scratch on the rear quarter panel that leads toward where D’Amore was filling the car. Best guess is a ricochet. He will do additional tests today.”

  Brad scratched his chin. “How did he miss a stationary target?”

  Archer peered in from the door. “Walk with me.”

  “Uh oh,” Griffin said. “Coulter’s in trouble.”

  Brad followed Archer down the hall. His gut did flip flops. Why did Archer want to see him? Had Archer talked to Dr. Keller? Was this it? He’d be suspended.

  “What’s up, Chief?”

  Archer stopped and peered at Brad, his gray eyes mere slits. “How are you doing? And don’t give me bullshit.”

  Brad shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  “Fine is a shitty answer.”

  Brad swallowed hard, failing to maintain eye contact. “I’m good.” He focused anywhere but at Archer. “Griffin and I are all over the shootings.”

  “Your head is clear? You’re dialed in?”

  “Yeah.”

  Archer pursed his lips and nodded. “Tell me about your altercation at the domestic Saturday night.”