13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  Brad stood. “Ah, you need a hug?”

  “Not from you, asshole.”

  “I feel terrible telling you this, but, um, have you gazed in the mirror lately? You are not hugging material.”

  “Sit.” Griffin switched on the TV. “Six o’clock news.”

  Brad nodded, picked up a stack of tips from the hotline and ignored the news anchor. One by one, he tossed the tips into two piles—ridiculous and possible. Then the squeaky voice of Angus Ferguson caught his attention. He increased the volume.

  Ferguson sat behind a desk in the TV studio. He wore a dark-green jacket over a pink shirt with his tartan tie.

  “We are pleased to have with us tonight, from the ABC News studio in New York, Martin Freeburg, a former FBI Special Agent who was a hostage negotiator and profiler. Welcome, Mr. Freeburg.”

  Brad could have picked Freeburg out of a crowd. Thinning gray hair, clean-shaven, and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore the distinctive style of the FBI—conservative blue suit, white shirt, and a striped red tie.

  “Thank you, Angus. It’s a pleasure to be on your show. And please, call me Martin.” He flashed a brilliant smile.

  “Martin. You are aware of the recent murders in Calgary. We have discussed this off-camera. The murders are the work of a sniper and in three days, six people have been shot”—Ferguson’s appearance grew grim—“including one child. In your experience, what are we dealing with?”

  “In my many cases such as this, I believe the sniper is acting alone and has extensive military experience including combat.” Martin frowned and shook his head. “He was likely outstanding in combat with a high kill rate. He likely volunteered for dangerous missions that put him in the position to kill multiple enemy targets. Now that he is out of the military, he still has that urge.” Martin gazed at the camera. “I believe he is hunting as we speak.”

  “Wow.” Ferguson sat back in his chair. “That’s quite a statement. How do you account for the differences in the targets? Women, men, and a child?”

  “In combat, he may have been faced with killing all three groups, within seconds of each other. His targets are of convenience. If I understand right from what I’ve been told, he has never been seen, and most times, where the shot came from is speculation. That backs my contention that he is a military expert.”

  “Let’s switch hats for a moment.” Ferguson folded his hands on the table and cocked his head. “If you were here and able to negotiate with the sniper, what would you do?”

  Martin confidently faced the camera. “The first, most important rule, is never to discuss police tactics in front of the media. There is no doubt the sniper is watching the press—he’s probably excited about the reporting. Where leads are taking the police, suspected vehicles, descriptions of suspects, all should be kept to a minimum.”

  “Doesn’t that put the public at risk?” Ferguson’s eyes were wide.

  “It does somewhat, but this man is a professional. You will not find him because someone bumped into him at the grocery store. Police must not negotiate.” He emphatically shook his head. “They must pressure the suspect into making a mistake.”

  “Won’t that lead to additional shootings?”

  “Angus, I fear the shootings will continue no matter what.” He frowned. “Getting the sniper to make a mistake is the best chance of catching him.”

  “How will the police know a mistake has been made?”

  “If I may, I realize the local police,” Martin said, his voice becoming patronizing, “who have never handled a situation such as this, are far out of their realm. They may not recognize the error committed by the sniper. It would be advisable to get experts who have dealt with this type of criminal.”

  “Are you recommending the RCMP take over this case?”

  “That is one option, although I’m afraid their expertise is lacking. Several big-city police departments such as New York and Los Angeles have expertise. There are several retired experts who could assist. Including the FBI,” Martin grinned.”

  “Thank you, Martin Freeburg, a former FBI Special Agent, hostage negotiator, and profiler.” Ferguson faced the camera. “One last note. Police received another community donation for the reward fund today. That means donations from the community are fifty thousand and Nickle Oil will match that, putting the reward at one hundred thousand dollars. If you have information, please call the tip line at the number at the bottom of your screen.”

  Brad shut off the TV. “Well, Griffin, it is my learned opinion that Martin is full of shite.”

  “He’s an ass, no doubt. But he started okay and made some valuable points.”

  “His profile might make sense in the US, but there aren’t that many of our military who get the experience he thinks the shooter has.”

  “You know the RCMP will come with the same profile,” Griffin said. “Then they’ll quote Martin Freeburg, FBI Special Agent, hostage negotiator, profiler and all-round giant prick. And that the RCMP should take over the case.”

  Brad flipped the bird at the TV. “Out of my cold, dead hands.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  The sun was setting as Brad pulled into the driveway. Lobo came flying from behind the garage and sprinted circles around the car until Brad got out. “Hey, buddy. Glad to see you.” Brad knelt and Lobo soaked Brad’s face with kisses and drool.

  Brad stood and headed to the house past Annie’s car.

  As he stepped into the house, he said, “This is the police, trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.”

  Annie appeared from the living room. “Like I’m scared. My dog would protect me.”

  “Whose dog?”

  Lobo padded over to Annie and sat at her side.

  “Traitor,” Brad said.

  “There’s a plate of food in the fridge. I’ll heat it.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard about the shooting on the news. I knew it would be a rough day for you, and I know you don’t exactly eat healthy since you have to cook for yourself. Plus, I miss Lobo and I knew he’d be here alone.”

  “He’s never alone. Remember, he’s got that pack of feral cats he hangs out with.”

  “That’s just wrong. It’ll take a few minutes to heat your dinner. Let’s sit in the living room.”

  Brad dropped into his recliner and Annie sat on the couch with her feet curled under her. Lobo curled up beside Annie.

  Brad reclined the chair. “Am I in trouble?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I used my detectiving skills.”

  Annie frowned. “That’s not a word.”

  “I think it is. Try using it in Scrabble.”

  Annie rolled her eyes.

  “I’m too tired for twenty questions, tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “I’m worried about you. I’d hoped you could ease into work. But you’re right in the middle of the biggest case ever. When I heard they shot the boy, I knew you’d be pissed. You don’t go to counseling.”

  “Keller is on vacation.” Brad stared out the living room window.

  “And heaven knows you won’t talk to any of the boys.”

  “Is this a long story?”

  Annie swung her legs off the couch and leaned forward. “No more bullshit. Are you okay?”

  Brad swallowed hard. She was right, damn it. He’d gone from low stress to one hundred percent in a couple of days. It felt right to be working. It was healthy to keep busy. He loved the challenge. But he was exhausted. He slid the chair upright.

  “I will never be all right. But hanging around here with Lobo, as much as I love that, it wasn’t enough. Sure, it would have been great to ease into work.”

  “That’s on Archer,” Annie said. “Why’d he put you in Homicide?”

  “There was an opening.”

  Annie’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god, you asked to go there.”

  “No. He offered, and I didn’t refuse.”

  “Idiot.”
Annie shook her head and sat back on the couch. “The case is all we talk about at college.”

  “Ah, the finest minds in criminal justice. And what does your Mensa group think?”

  “They think the police have bungled the whole thing and the snipers have the cops backpedaling. Someone said you guys couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery.”

  “And you agree?”

  “There were mistakes.”

  “Sure. It’s easy to peek back in time and say here’s where you should have done something. But real world doesn’t have the luxury of hindsight. You make the best decisions you can at the time with whatever information you have. Most of the time you are making split-second decisions based on little information and gut instinct.”

  “I’m not saying I agree with them. But—”

  “Oh, here it comes.”

  Annie frowned and cocked her head to the side. “But the sniper is ahead of you.”

  “That’s the way every case starts. We’re playing catch-up. But we eventually catch up. We’ll get the sniper. He’ll make a mistake, and when he does, we’ll pounce.”

  A bell chimed from the kitchen. “Your dinner is ready.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Friday Day Ten

  Brad slept in but needed the jog, and so did Lobo. While Brad showered and dressed, Lobo had curled up on his bed and was snoring. Brad figured he’d give Lobo the day off. On the way to work there was a coffee stop at Gerry’s.

  He took the stairs to the basement and down the hall to the zoo. The door was closed and the lights off. He smiled. Everyone must have slept in. They wouldn’t know when he got there, so he’d have some ammunition for the day. He unlocked the door, flipped on the lights, set his coffee on the desk and flopped into his chair.

  A stack of reports from detectives following up on tips sat neatly in the center of his blotter. He sighed, grabbed his coffee and started reading. The first dozen reports didn’t catch his interest. The first report of interest was a guy who’d used cinder blocks to barricade his house. He blocked up the doors and windows. Apparently, he bought enough food and water to last a month.

  The next two reports were of interest. After the shooting of Jolanda D’Amore on Tuesday night, a white station wagon had driven around a police barricade and nearly hit two officers. The description of the car and partial license number was put on the radio. Five minutes later, a dozen officers were aiming revolvers and shotguns at the car surrounded the vehicle.

  They took the driver and passenger into custody and left them in cells while the detectives investigated further. The car was searched but they found no evidence of any involvement in the shootings. They obtained a search warrant for his house. During the search of his home, police came across a .223 rifle and ammunition. Both the rifle and ammunition were tested but did not match the previous victims. When the detectives finally interviewed the driver and asked why he’d dodged the cops, he said he had an expired driver’s license and didn’t want to get stopped and lose his license—the one he didn’t have—because he needed his car to get to work. His license had indeed expired. The passenger, the first suspect’s roommate, was on probation for theft and drugs, but nothing violent or firearms related. Based on the lack of evidence, they were released. However, the detectives had a feeling about these guys, so they were put under surveillance.

  He tossed that report on the outgoing pile and grabbed the next report. This was the second police contact with the suspects in the white station wagon. Shortly after the Shawn Fortin shooting, the car again sped around a police roadblock, and again, the car was stopped, and the suspects faced guns and shotguns. And then the detectives who had the suspects under surveillance pulled up. They’d been following the suspects since 6:00 a.m., and the suspects hadn’t been near the school when the shooting occurred. They were no longer suspects, but clearly assholes. Now they were in police cells thinking about their bad choices.

  He picked up a report from Ames. He’d been to every gun store in the city. They’d given him the names of anyone who’d bought a .223 rifle in the past six months. He’d seconded a bunch of cops and they’d tracked every owner. They all had alibis for at least three of the shootings. Dead end.

  That created a whole new list of questions. What if the guns were purchased over six months ago or the guns were purchased outside of Calgary? The RCMP could find out.

  If the shooter was from outside Calgary, why did he come here to kill? Did Calgary mean something to him? Great questions and he didn’t have a clue what the answer was to any of them.

  He sat back and took a long gulp of coffee. Shit. He hated cold coffee.

  None of the guys had come in yet. Might as well get something to eat. In this job, you never knew when you’d eat again.

  It was the in-between time. 10:00 a.m. Too late for breakfast but too early for lunch. Brad sipped his coffee and stared at the menu he knew by heart. His brain argued: breakfast, lunch. Breakfast, lunch. What the hell. He waved down the waitress. “I’ll have a BLT on white with fries.”

  “We’re still on the breakfast menu.”

  “So, no BLT?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay, I’ll have three slices of white toast. Two sides of bacon. Sliced tomatoes, and if you can put some lettuce on the side, that would be great.”

  The waitress peered over the pad as she wrote his order on.

  “Oh, yeah, and mayo on the toast.”

  The waitress rolled her eyes. “Right. One BLT. Do you still want the fries?”

  “That would be great.” Brad reached for his coffee. No quality leads in the shootings and soon he’d have to deal with the RCMP. He did not get along with the Mounties. No city cop anywhere did. He didn’t even know why there was this rivalry, but he was happy to keep it going.

  For Brad, it started when he and the team were hunting Jeter Wolfe. Unknown to Brad, the RCMP had undercover members in Calgary doing the same thing. When both groups ended up in the same location in the dark, they nearly killed each other. As it was, one RCMP member was shot, but likely from one of his own. There’d been bad blood ever since, especially between Brad and Stinson.

  He stared out the window and wondered what his next step should be. None of the leads so far had produced anything other than clearing a bunch of outstanding warrants and nabbing a few parole violations. It was worth it to get some guns off the street, the ones the bad guys had.

  The problem was that they’d taken firearms from law-abiding citizens. That didn’t sit well with him. The people who registered guns, kept them locked up, and followed safety rules weren’t the problem. The courts needed to be tougher on any crime where a gun was involved. Any crime where an illegal or stolen gun was found.

  In his periphery, someone was approaching. Expecting his BLT breakfast, his head turned as he smiled. Not his breakfast. Sadie.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She slid into the booth. “Imagine that. We’re at a restaurant in the same general vicinity, same general time.”

  “Are you following me?”

  “I’m an investigative reporter.” She grinned. “I can find stuff out.”

  “Seriously, how did you find me?”

  “I called headquarters and got a guy named Mullen. I told him I was supposed to meet you, but I didn’t remember where. He said you’d gone out for breakfast. I asked where. He said either the Three Brothers or the truck stop. You weren’t at the Three Brothers.”

  The waitress refilled Brad’s coffee and poured a cup for Sadie.

  “Your special order will be ready in a few minutes,” the waitress said.

  “Special order?” Sadie asked. “You must be a regular.”

  “Long story,” Brad said.

  Sadie leaned forward. “I’ve got time now.”

  “Sadie, what do you want?”

  “Coffee and conversation.”

  “I’m sure your cameraman would love to have coffee with you.”

  �
��He’s not much on conversation.”

  Brad laughed. “And you think I’ll be great conversation?”

  “You’ve got better stories than he does.”

  “That may be true, but I’m afraid I’m not sharing with you.”

  Sadie sat back and clutched her chest. “I’m so hurt.”

  Brad laughed. “You’re fishing for a scoop. Not from me.”

  “Haven’t I been fair in everything so far?”

  Brad nodded. “That you have.”

  “Let’s just talk.”

  “Go ahead.”

  The waitress placed Brad’s meal in front of him.

  “A BLT at ten?”

  “I’ve got pull.” Brad poured ketchup on the plate.

  Sadie reached over, grabbed a French fry, dipped it in the ketchup, and popped it in her mouth. “Maybe I should get one of those.”

  “I don’t think you’ve got that kind of pull here.”

  “But you do.” She grabbed another fry.

  Brad picked up half his BLT and ate.

  “If I don’t have pull here, maybe you’ll share?”

  “Not gonna happen.” Brad waved at the waitress. “A breakfast special just like mine for the lady.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” the waitress said, then headed to the kitchen.

  “You do have pull here. You eat. I’ll start. I grew up on a farm in Pincher Creek. Farming wasn’t so great, but I had a horse, so that made it endurable. I couldn’t wait to get off the farm, so I enrolled in Lethbridge College and took journalism.”

  “No kidding,” Brad said between bites.

  “You wouldn’t believe what a cutthroat business journalism is. I finally got a job in Lethbridge for a TV station. I made the most of it and then landed the job here in Calgary last fall. Your turn.”

  “I’m still eating.”

  Sadie stole a French fry off Brad’s plate. “Okay. I hate football and hockey. I love golf. I like to jog and hike. Roughing it to me is a Holiday Inn instead of the Hyatt. I don’t like cats, but I like dogs.”