She sighed and stepped back. “What’s the story with the chiropractor?”
“Nothing there either. He’s just a weird dude.”
“Can I quote you?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.” Brad leaned against his car, arms crossed. “You can quote me when the time is right. Then we’ll do a sit-down interview—you and only you get that information.”
“Carew insists it’s too early to change routines at schools.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“Oh, that’s an even better quote.”
“I’m speaking freely because I believe you have ethics—you’re not Ferguson. If you want to make a difference and be the hero, go with the information I gave you about kids and schools. Change routines, that stuff. That will make the most difference.”
“Angus seems to think there is a story about you. Maybe I could get some inside info. The real Brad Coulter.” Sadie spread her arms wide like unrolling a banner. “Not the shit Ferguson is making up.”
“You can correct that when you write this story. You’ll have direct police resources and the truth will make all those like Angus who made up shit appear like they should work for a supermarket tabloid.”
She shrugged. “Nothing official. Maybe we end up at a restaurant in the same general vicinity, same general time. It is two-and-a-half hours until your press conference. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
“I’m starving. And so is my dog.” Brad opened the car door. “It’s not safe in the city. Can I give you a ride back to your office?”
Brad slid out of his comfortable chair, grabbed the dirty dishes, and headed to the kitchen. He set the plates in the sink, thought about washing them, then thought, screw it. Then he heard there would be a TV special report about the shooter. He increased the volume up and slid back into his chair. Lobo lay across his feet.
“We’ll go to a special report from Sadie Andrus.” The news anchor faded and the image of Sadie outside a school replaced it. It was dark out, but floodlights lit up the scene.
“Hello. I’m outside Ernest Manning High School in the southwest. It’s quiet here, but tomorrow morning hundreds of students will flock to this school, and thousands more to schools across the city. There has been no direct threat by the shooter to school children, but a source within the Calgary Police Service has suggestions for the safety of the children.”
The camera panned to footage of a school bus.
“For kids arriving and leaving school, there are a few things that might pay off. Buses should drop kids off at the back of the school. 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 an open area. There is advice for adults. If you need 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.”
The screen centered back on Sadie.
“I’ll be reporting from another school tomorrow morning. I’m Sadie Andrus, CFAC news.”
Brad shut off the TV and headed to the door.
“Lobo, let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lobo lay beside the podium in the jammed briefing room. Devlin said some members of the press had been in their chairs since 7:00 p.m. Brad tugged at the neck of his open-collared shirt and thought about taking off his jacket. The room would get hotter when the lights of the cameras came on. But he did not want anyone focusing on his gun, magazines, or handcuffs. The jacket stayed on.
Brad set his notes on the podium and at 9:00 p.m. nodded. The room was ablaze with light. “Good evening and thank you for coming. Earlier today a letter was delivered to Sadie Andrus of CFAC and addressed to me. The note read: Dear Policeman Colter, I am that I am. You will hear from me again. I only talk to Colter.”
Brad swallowed. He flipped his notes over.
“Please understand we are doing everything we can to stop the shootings,” Brad said. “When we receive a note like this, we need to confirm its authenticity and meaning. Irresponsible acts by a member of the press in the name of transparency or the right of people to know, or ego, puts lives in danger, and does nothing to mitigate risks.”
Brad glanced around the room, then his eyes stopped on Angus Ferguson.
“Until we have completed our analysis,” Brad continued, “I will not be taking questions about the note.”
He pushed his notes to the side.
“My favorite class in high school was English,” Brad said to the crowd. “I enjoyed writing short stories, comedies, and satire. However, despite my enthusiasm for writing, I would never portray myself as an expert writer.” Again, he glanced around the room. This time his eyes landed on Sadie. She grinned and winked. He jerked his head back. “And, uh … nor should a reporter feel they know more about policing than I do.”
He gripped the side of the podium.
“Today,” Brad continued, “we followed a promising lead. Investigations like this take time. We are methodical. While we were investigating, a member of the press released the name of a suspect and showed photos of the suspect, his family, and place of work.”
Brad glared at Angus. Other reporters followed his eyes.
“The investigation concluded when we found the suspect was merely interested in the crimes and had not committed the killings. He was released, and we appreciate his cooperation. However, as his name and occupation were made public, it is my opinion the reporter owes this man an open apology. I hope the irresponsible reporting will not affect this man’s life. If this man pursues legal action against the members of the press who slandered his name, I would be honored to testify on his behalf.” Brad stepped out from behind the podium. “I’ll take a few questions.”
“Detective Coulter, Angus—”
Brad waved his hand over the gathered reporters. “Next question.”
“Detective, Tony King, XL Radio. You refer to the villain as a shooter. Wouldn’t the correct term be sniper?”
Brad nodded. “Good question. Let me talk about the terms shooter and sniper. It’s a matter of opinion rather than one of definition. The origin of the word sniper comes from the Brits in India in the 1770s. Sniper referred to people who could accurately shoot a snipe, a tiny bird. A shooter refers to anyone who fires a gun. We think of a sniper as having specialized military service, or a style of hunting where the shooter, by stealth, gets close to the animal he or she is hunting. A great deal of skill and marksmanship is involved. To answer your question, the use of sniper is appropriate.”
“If I may,” Tony King said. “How and when will the sniper contact you?”
“I don’t know how or when the sniper will contact me, but I want him to know I am open to any form of communication. A call to the tip line would be appropriate. Next.”
Brad’s eyes surveyed the group and stopped on Sadie. “Detective,” Sadie said, “the RCMP have offered to assist. Do you feel it is time to invite the RCMP to take part in this investigation?”
“We have already been in contact with the RCMP and they are helping us with specific elements of this case. Did you have another question, Ms. Andrus?”
“What do you say to Calgarians who are scared to go out of their homes? Who are terrified to buy groceries or go to work?”
“I get it. Something like this has never happened here before. However, you have already reported on the precautions citizens should take and I support your reporting. It’s reasonable to be scared, it’s reasonable to take precautions such as the ones you mentioned in your report earlier this evening, but to shutter up the house and lock away the children and silverware?” He frowned. “The sniper wins if we do that. We’re stronger than that. Look out for each other, go the extra mile for your neighbor, and we will come out of this a better city.”
Brad stepped away from the podium, then swung back.
“A last note,” he said. �
��The reward for information that leads to the arrest and conviction of the sniper is at fifty thousand, thanks to additional contributions from a local petroleum producer, Nickle Oil. They will match any funds collected from the community. Information on the sniper must go to the tip line. Please do not use 911 as our emergency lines are being overwhelmed with calls. That’s the end of this briefing. Thank you.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Pittman pounded the dash of the car. “The fuckin’ oil companies upped the reward money?” He hit the dash again.
Hirsch switched off the car radio. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“We have their attention. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Pittman chewed his bottom lip and glared at Hirsch. “Those bastards. They don’t have money to keep us working, but they can toss money out for a reward.”
“If you expect the CEOs to make sense, you’re crazy,” Hirsch said. “It’s not about the money. It’s about them appearing respectable.”
“The fuckin’ cops are buying into this. We’re not getting any respect.”
Hirsch nodded and pulled into the parking lot across from the bars. “Not from that asshole, Carew, doing all the talking for the police.”
“He’s a jerk.”
Hirsch shut off the car. “At least Coulter takes us seriously. I knew he was the right choice.”
Pittman slumped in his seat and exhaled. “Maybe too seriously.”
Hirsch shrugged. “It’s clear the cops don’t have a clue what to do.”
“Don’t they understand we decide who lives and who dies?” Pittman opened his door, slipped out of the car, and strode across the street. “I’m gonna call them.”
Hirsch jumped out and raced to catch up to Pittman. “What?”
“Yup. I’m gonna call them and let them know we aren’t taking any shit from them. We get respect, or more people die.”
Hirsch grabbed Pittman’s arm. “How are you going to contact them?”
“I’ll use the tip line.”
“Not a good idea. They’ll have a trace on that line.”
Pittman glared at Hirsch. “You got a better idea?”
“Call 911 from a payphone in the bar. Give your message quickly, then hang up. We’re in another bar by the time the cops get there.”
Pittman waited in the back hall of the bar as a guy staggered toward the bathroom, then he lifted the payphone receiver and dialed 911. Hirsch stood beside him, making sure no one could overhear the conversation.
“911. Please hold, we are experiencing a high call volume.”
Pittman pulled the phone away from his ear. “They’ve got me on fucking hold. Can you believe that?”
Hirsch laughed. “What a bunch of idiots.”
Pittman held up his hand.
“911. Police, fire, or EMS?”
“Uh, police.”
“Please hold while I transfer your call.”
“On hold again.” Pittman rolled his eyes.
“RCMP dispatch. What is your emergency?” a female voice asked.
“Yeah, I want to tell you about the shootings.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Why does that matter?” Pittman asked.
“Sir, I need to direct your call to the right police agency.”
“Fuck that. I’m trying to tell you about the murders.”
“Sir, please don’t swear. Now, where are you calling from?” RCMP dispatch asked.
“I’m not telling you that. I’ll tell you about the shootings.”
“The shootings in Calgary?”
“Are there other multiple shootings I don’t know about?”
“Sir, I’m trying to be patient.”
“Yes, damn it, the shootings in Calgary.”
“Thank you. What is your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am that I am,” Pittman said.
“I don’t understand that. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want to tell the cops about the shootings in Calgary. It all started in Rocky Mountain House.”
“I’m confused, sir,” RCMP dispatch said. “Are you calling about the Calgary shootings or a shooting in Rocky Mountain House?”
“Calgary.”
“The RCMP is not investigating that shooting. I’ll forward you to Calgary Police Dispatch.”
“No, wait …”
Hirsch raised his eyebrows.
“On hold again.” Pittman slammed the receiver down. “Those bastards are gonna pay.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Thursday Day Nine
The sun was peaking over the horizon as Jill Cook followed the narrow lane and parked at the side of the school. She slid out of her vehicle and surveyed the area. The turn of the century brick school was nestled against a thickly forested hill. The school building provided cover from the street out front.
Jill shivered as a blast of cold fall wind whipped across the parking lot. Zipping her hoodie, she headed to the passenger door. The other cars and buses unloaded kids. Parents grabbed their children by the arms and dragged them into the school.
Jill took Joel’s hand as he stepped out of the car. He immediately ripped his hand from his mother’s grasp. Jill smiled. A ten-year-old boy does not hold hands with his mom in public, no matter the danger. He allowed her to walk beside him across the playground and up the stairs to the back door.
With a quick, “Bye, Mom,” he sprinted into the school.
Jill sighed. Now Joel was safely in the school. She should be relieved. Again, she shivered, but not from the wind. It was like a cold force had passed through her. She stood on the steps and surveyed the parking lot and playground, shaking her head. A few children were playing on the swings and monkey bars. She started that way, then noticed a lady motioning and calling to the kids. Her eyes roamed over the area once before heading back to her car.
She’d dressed for a jog—hoodie over a T-shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers. The jog from the school to Elbow Drive was about five blocks—then a jog along the Elbow River. Calming and relaxing.
She had just started stretching when a shot rang out.
Screams followed.
Paramedic instinct kicked in. She spun toward the direction of the shot and took several steps toward the trees. Where there’s a gunshot, there’s a victim. She frantically scanned the hill. Was the shooter still there?
“Oh my god, he’s shot,” someone yelled.
Jill swung to the voice and started jogging.
“Someone, do something.” The voice was frantic.
Jill was in a sprint. Parents rushed toward her, some dragging children by the hand, others with their child tucked under their arm. She jostled as she headed toward the screams. She’d seen Joel enter the school. He was safe. She hoped. She shouted at a parent fleeing toward the school to call the police and lock down the building.
Jill glanced at the school’s doors, but in the flood of people, she couldn’t see him. She prayed he remembered her instructions: find cover.
She dodged a couple of cars and broke through the panic of people. A half-dozen adults and kids grouped next to a child on the ground. Her first thought: it’s not Joel.
Jill dropped to the ground beside the boy and dragged him behind a car. Her eyes glanced down his tiny body. He was Joel’s age, with light-brown hair and freckles across his nose. The right side of his Pac Man T-shirt was blood soaked. With each gasping breath, blood flowed from the wound. Jill ripped off her hoodie, put it over his chest, and applied pressure with one hand.
He winced and let out a slight cry.
“I’m Jill. I’m a paramedic. I’m going to help you. What’s your name?”
“Shawn.” He gasped and stared up at her. Tears formed trails down his face, his brown eyes wide and scared. She checked his carotid pulse. Rapid and very weak. She grasped his trembling hand.
“It hurts so
bad.”
Jill squeezed his hand. “I know, baby. Can you be brave for me?”
Tears streamed down his face as he nodded.
She peered at the few adults nearby. She knew in situations like this you had to be direct and specific with your instructions. She selected a man, mid-fifties, wearing blue work clothes.
“Do you work here?”
He nodded. “Janitor.”
“Good. I need you to run into the school and call 911. Tell them this boy has been shot. We need EMS and police.”
He nodded and stared.
“Go, now.”
In the seconds it had taken to give instructions to the janitor, Shawn had paled considerably. Nothing more helpless than a paramedic without her ambulance.
“Oh my god, Shawn.” A woman knelt next to him. “Oh my god, so much blood.”
“That’s not helping,” Jill hissed. “Who are you?”
The lady nodded and chewed her lip. “I’m Sarah Park, Shawn’s teacher.”
“I’m a paramedic.”
Sarah hesitantly reached out to Shawn and placed her hand on his shoulder. She sniffled, then her eyes focused, and her jaw clenched. “Sorry. What can I do?”
“Run to the school. Get the first-aid kit and get back here as fast as you can. Tell someone to call his mom and have her go to the Children’s Hospital.”
Sarah patted Shawn’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
Jill exhaled deeply and focused on Shawn. His tiny gasps were frequent. His eyes were heavy and closed. His pale face grimaced in pain.
Jill enfolded his tiny hand. “Shawn, can you hear me?”
His eyes slowly opened, and his head rotated toward her. His lips quivered and his shoulders shook. “I want my mommy.”
Jill’s jaw clenched. She swallowed hard and clutched his hand. Damn. It was cold. “We’re calling your mommy. She’ll meet us at the hospital.”
“Mommy.” His heavy eyes closed.
Where the hell was the ambulance?
All she could do was hold his hand, talk to him, and reassess. Okay, the airway is open. She controlled the bleeding on the chest. His skin was ghostly pale, and his hand was cold. She should check his back, but couldn’t risk moving him. Faint sirens sounded in the distance. Help was on the way. She closed her eyes. Please, faster.
13 Days of Terror Page 13
