“Had one round in the magazine, nothing in the chamber.”
Clipper sighed. He hoped it would help the young officer sitting in her watch commander’s car to understand that it was her suspect’s choice to die by her hand. He called John Peters and asked him to stand by at the station to take Sikes’s statement.
Clipper went back to the office and grabbed the statement that Dave Adams had taken from Ginny Palter on Sunday. She had claimed to be with Harold Petersen at the movies during the time of the Rojas’s attack and also repeated her claim that they had been together all of Friday night. He wandered down to the lab in the basement and found Adams logging in the evidence from the shooting.
“What did you think of Ginny Palter when you took her statement Saturday?” he asked.
Adams considered. “I think it’s a legit alibi,” he said after a moment. “She’s married — old man’s deployed in Afghanistan — and looks like she’s been used hard, but I think she’s basically honest. At least I don’t think she was lying for Petersen.”
Clipper tracked down Josh Preston and they took twenty minutes to craft a press release covering the Sikes shooting and probable closure of the Day and Sterns homicides. Then Clipper went back to his office, closed the door, and put in a call to Carol Murphy.
“I understand you media people have solved the Amburg homicide,” he said when she answered. “City Manager’s thinking about offering you my job, seeing as I’m ignoring suspects.”
“I assume you’re talking about that sleaze Harold Petersen,” Murphy answered coolly.
“Ah, you assume. Must be nice. My boss — you know, the attorney general? — he doesn’t allow us to do much of that. He’s got this quaint little hangup about evidence and proof and probable cause and all that stuff.”
“Oh, come on, Clipper. You know he’s dirty as well as I do. I felt like taking a shower after I interviewed him.”
“No matter what you—or I—think, he’s still entitled to protection under the law right up to the time a jury says he’s guilty. I get that you need to protect your sources. I have to do the same thing. But in this case, you’re being fed bad information.”
“You’re saying he’s not a suspect?”
“I’m saying the Department’s got no comment as to Mister Petersen’s status,” Clipper said. “And neither should you, unless you have some evidence that I don’t know about.”
“I believe I’ll let my director determine what our comments should or shouldn’t be.” Murphy’s voice dropped. “Damn you police and your damned secrets. Look, Clip, I don’t know who’s talking, or even who’s being talked to, but the word is spreading that he’s it and that he’s thumbing his nose at you, and my boss wants us ahead of the curve on this one.”
“Okay,” Clipper said, “I’m not pointing fingers, but here’s another word that needs to be spread. If I find out one of my people is talking, it’s going to cost him his job, and if you guys spread bad information that costs us a prosecution, I’m going to have the AG looking for a criminal liability case. Pass that on to your boss.”
Clipper hung up feeling like he’d just told Murphy that his father could beat up her father.
Chapter Fourteen
When Clipper got to the station on Tuesday morning, he found Ed Angelo and Allen Oaks drinking coffee with Bobby Cox, an undercover State DEA agent in the conference room.
Cox was dressed in jeans and black hoodie, and sported a wild tangle of dark brown hair and a two-day growth of beard. Clip kept a wide berth, not sure if he wanted to smell him.
“State’s got a couple drug warrants, Clip,” Angelo said. “One of ’em is for our old friend Leland Bonny, so we thought we’d tag along.”
Leland Bonny was a twenty-five-year-old thief who dealt a little grass and acid on the side. He and various friends usually stayed with his mother in a neighborhood of old military housing unit on the north side of the city, and he was a suspect in several recent burglaries in that area.
Clipper filled his coffee cup. “Give him my regards,” he said as he headed to his office to tackle the ever-present paperwork.
Leland Bonny awoke to the stuttering sound of his window shade snapping up. He squeezed gummy eyes shut against the glare of the early morning sun that flooded his normally darkened bedroom and tried to burrow deeper into a nest of grimy blankets.
“Get up, man. Go get your old lady to make us some breakfast.” Turk Nason had crashed at Bonny’s after his girlfriend left the party without him the night before. He dug hard fingers into Bonny’s arm and pulled him onto the floor.
“Okay, okay,” Bonny muttered, rubbing his arm as he lurched to his feet. He stood six inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than Nason, and he was afraid of the older man—not so much his muscular six-foot frame or his stark jailhouse tattoos, but his always aggressive, nothing-to-lose, hair-trigger temper. Stumbling into a pair of jeans, Bonny scuttled to the top of the stairs in his bare feet and yelled, “Hey, Ma. Can we get something to eat?”
Connie Bonny heaved herself out of her chair with a tired sigh and headed for the tiny kitchen. She hated to miss any of her show, but fifty years and fifty extra pounds had slowed her step, and her meager existence had all but broken her spirit. She had no energy left to argue with her useless son, so she headed for the kitchen without argument.
But as she walked down the hallway, there was a knock at the front door. She clutched her house coat tighter and opened the door a couple of inches to see a scruffy looking young man in jeans and a hoodie on the concrete step, with two men standing behind him dressed in sports coats and slacks.
“Hi, Missus Bonny,” said the scruffy one. “Is Leland home?”
One of the banes of any cop’s existence is the requirement to testify in court. Always scheduled at the convenience of the court and the defense attorney, trials sometimes offer a break in a patrol officer’s normal routine, but more often required his presence in court on a day off or when he’s struggling to stay awake after a long night shift. Trials nearly always start when scheduled, but witnesses are usually forced to wait outside the courtroom until their turn to testify, often turning simple cases into all-day affairs.
For detectives, trials are simply hurry-up-and-wait, unproductive voids in their already crammed work days.
On this Tuesday morning, as he stepped out of the elevator into the main lobby of the Justice Center, Clipper counted himself lucky that his testimony in a burglary trial had been minor and gotten out of the way quickly. He turned his phone back on to see several messages for him to call dispatch. When he called in, he was immediately transferred to the day watch commander, Lieutenant Jim Thorn.
“Clip, get over to the E.R.,” Thorn said without preamble. “You got a man down.”
Clipper started running. “Who?”
“Allen Oaks. I don’t know how bad it is, but they took him by ambulance. Apparently a drug arrest went sideways out on Randolph Drive and he got hit. There’s also two civilians down, and your guys are at the scene now.”
Outside the emergency room entrance, Clipper tossed a police ID card on the dash and abandoned his truck, flipping his keys to a security guard as he ran through the doors. Inside, a blood-spattered Ed Angelo was standing with Debora Oaks and an older woman who turned out to be her sister. Both women were dry-eyed, but Oak’s wife was shivering and clutching her sister for support. Angelo’s hands, arms, and clothing were coated with still-damp blood, and the left side of his face was spattered as well.
“They’ve already got him in surgery,” Angelo said. “Slug got by the vest under his arm. We had Bonny, but—”
Clipper held up a hand. “Just a minute, Ed,” he said. He strode over to the registration desk and showed his badge to the nurse. “Is there a private place these folks can wait?” he asked.
The nurse pointed to a closed door with a sign that said Conference Room at the far side of the waiting area, and Clipper nodded his thanks.
Returning to
the group, he said, “Come on, let’s go sit. It’s probably going to be a while.” He led them into the smaller room, then stepped back outside and called Janice to let her know what was going on. Then he quickly dialed John Peters, who he figured would be at the scene. “What have we got?” he asked when Peters answered.
“We got two dead here,” Peters said, “A guy named Turk Nason and an older woman, I think Bonny’s mother.”
“You got everything you need?”
“Yeah, Dave and Randy are here plus a couple of patrol guys. Uh, Ed was one of the shooters. He went in with Allen in the ambulance, but we need to get his gun and get him debriefed as soon as we can.”
“I’m at the hospital now. Allen’s in surgery and Ed’s here. I’ll get his gun and send him in to the station, but I’m going to stay here with Debby.”
Clipper called dispatch and asked for a cruiser to be sent to the emergency room, then walked over to the registration desk and asked the nurse for a large manila envelope. Taking it back to the conference room, he motioned Ed Angelo outside and took his sidearm, sealing it in the envelope and writing his name and the time and date across the flap. “You okay?” he asked.
Angelo nodded. “Jesus, Clip, Allen got hit hard. Bobby knocked on the door and Bonny’s old lady let us in, and Bonny was right there coming down the stairs. Bobby told him we needed to talk to him, and then all of a sudden there was a guy at the top of the stairs shootin’ at us. Allen and I both got off shots at him and then the woman went down and then I heard Allen get hit and then the guy was falling down the stairs. It all happened so fast. I don’t know who got him and I don’t know what happened after that. Allen was bleeding like crazy and I ripped his vest off and was just trying to keep pressure on the wound. He… he never opened his eyes…” Angelo’s voice ran down, and his eyes began to glisten.
Clipper placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Look, I got a cruiser coming,” he said. “I’ll stay here, but I want you to grab a ride home and get cleaned up and then go on in to the station, okay? You did your job, and Allen’s a tough guy. We’ll get through this.”
When the cruiser got there, Clipper took the patrolman aside and told him to stay with Angelo while he cleaned up and changed, then take him to the station. After they left, Clipper called Ellen Davis and asked her to sit with Angelo when he came in, and get him started on a written report.
As Clipper was walking back into the building, Janice appeared with a tray of coffee containers and a bag of donuts from Cleo’s. “How is he?” she asked.
Clipper shook his head. “Shot in the chest, in surgery. We don’t know yet.”
The morning dragged by slowly. Chief Norris made an appearance with the City Manager, and John Peters’s wife Susan came to sit with Debby. A couple of TV reporters kept a silent vigil outside the building, and Clipper went out once to tell them what little he could.
About quarter after one, a short man in surgical scrubs stepped into the room with a smile on his face. He picked out Debby Oaks immediately and went directly to her.
“I’m Dr. Barron,” he said. “Barring complications, Mr. Oaks is going to be fine. “He’s got two broken ribs and some lung damage, and we had to replace a lot of blood due to a bit of arterial damage as well, but we got to him in time, and he should make a full recovery. He’ll be going up to intensive care and someone will be along to take you up once he’s settled.”
Clipper left the hospital, retrieving his keys from the security guard and taking a moment to thank him for taking care of his truck. He stopped to give the waiting press a quick update, then drove to Randolph Drive. The bodies had been removed, but Dave Adams and Randy Bissonette were still working the scene.
“Where do we stand?” Clipper asked.
Adams knew what he meant. “It’s going to be a righteous shoot, LT,” he said. “Either Ed or Allen—or both—got Nason, and Doc Church said from the entry and exit angles on Mrs. Bonny it looks like the shot that hit her came from the top of the stairs. We also got Bonny on record saying Nason started the shooting.”
“How’s Cox?”
“He’s okay. He left with a State detective, and he’ll bring in a statement, but I don’t think he fired a single shot. Had his piece in an ankle holster, and by the time he got it out, it was all over. Counting up the empty cases, there were only thirteen shots fired between three of them.”
Clipper left the blood-spattered house, grabbed a burger and fries at the McDonald’s drive-thru, and sat in his truck while he ate. When he got back to the station, he logged Angelo’s pistol into the evidence locker, then went directly to the chief’s office to update Norris.
“Oaks is going to make it,” he said, “but it looks like a long recovery. We’re okay on the shooting, but we’re also going to lose Angelo for a while to the AG’s investigation. Bottom line, I’m two men down and I’m going to need some replacements.”
Norris shook his head. “Patrol’s short, too,” he said. “You’ll just have to prioritize a little better, maybe let some of the minor stuff slide.”
“Chief, right now we’re up to our asses in rapes and murders. The minor stuff’s already sliding, and if it keeps up, pretty soon we’ll be ignoring bank robberies and arsons.”
Norris glared across his desk. “All right,” he said finally. “You can have one man out of Patrol, but you use him to keep a lid on your overtime.”
Clipper figured that was the best he was going to get, so he capitulated gracefully. “Okay, Chief, thank you,” he said. “I think Officer Cross is qualified, and I don’t have time for interviews, so I’ll just speak with his boss and make it happen, if that’s okay with you.”
“All right, whatever.” Norris waved Clipper out of the office.
Normally, any opening for a patrol officer in any non-patrol position required posting the job and doing applicant interviews before any transfer was made. Clipper, figuring this wasn’t really a normal situation, went down the hall to the Deputy Chief’s office and stuck his head in.
“Got a minute, Cap?”
Captain Roland Foster was a silver-haired, iron-fisted bear of a man who had risen through the patrol ranks in a thirty-year career marked by unwavering courage and dedication. Whispered tales of his early exploits in the back alleys and dives along the riverfront was the stuff of legend amongst younger patrolmen.
At Foster’s nod, Clipper grabbed a chair. “Chief okayed a transfer from Patrol to fill in while Oaks and Angelo are out.”
“Got it posted yet?”
“Well, it’s temporary—an emergency measure—so I want to go without the posting. I’ll run it by Porter if you want, but the chief agrees we don’t need to post it.”
Officer Raymond Porter was the patrol union’s shop steward, and Clipper made a point of including him in negations such as this whenever possible, if for no other reason than to maintain a reasonable working relationship with the union.
“Yeah, I guess that’s all right.” Foster thought for a minute. “I guess we could spare Deering.”
Clipper smiled broadly. “I just wouldn’t feel right taking your best man,” he said. Montgomery Deering was a three-year officer with a reputation for self-preservation above all else. Known by his peers as “Daring Deering,” he was widely regarded as a bit of a coward. “I think Caleb Cross is ready, and he’s already up to speed on some of what we got going on.”
That last part was a little stretch, but Cross had caught Clipper’s eye as an intelligent officer and a good fit for the division, and Clip wasn’t above a little exaggeration.
Foster sighed. “His boss ain’t going to like it,” he muttered, “but I guess that’s my problem.” He looked at a schedule on his desk. “He’s off tonight, so I’ll make the transfer effective tomorrow. You can call him and let him know.”
“Thanks, Cap. I owe you.”
Clipper went back to his office and called Caleb Cross, telling him to report at eight o’clock in the morning, then went out and found Ell
en Davis and reviewed Allen Oaks’s statement.
“How’s he doing?” he asked.
“He’s okay,” she said. “John talked with the chief and went home with him and got him settled. The AG called and said they’ll be here tomorrow for statements.”
“Great,” Clipper muttered, thinking about his lazy Sunday and wishing he’d been wrong about the week to come. Maybe, if he was lucky, the rest of the week would be somewhat less interesting.
One could always hope.
Chapter Fifteen
The area to the west of Hal’s Handy Stop, across Route 15 and between it and Kenduskeag Avenue to the west, was wooded, mostly lowland with a rugged spine of juniper- and scrub-covered ridge running down its center, parallel to the roadways.
The sniper had made his nest on this ridge, just down from the crest overlooking Route 15. He’d parked on a deserted stretch of Kenduskeag and made the quarter-mile trek to the ridge before first light; from where he lay, it was just a bit under a third of a mile to the front door of Hal’s Handy Stop. His insulated underwear, heavy corduroy pants, and thick woolen hunting shirt, as well as the canvas ground-cloth beneath him, allowed him to ignore the early November chill as he lay passive and unmoving in his hide.
A battered Savage model 110 rifle in .270 caliber was held loosely against his shoulder as he surveyed his target area through the 6x35 Weaver scope.
At the pumps below, forty-two-year-old Donna Hollis muttered under her breath as she struggled with the gas cap on her 1999 Ford Fiesta. She was going to be late for work—again; she was just a little hung over—again; and the damned cap was jammed—again.
“Wouldn’t hurt the lazy bastard to fill it once in a while,” she griped out loud, grabbing the cap with both hands. Her muttering turned to an agonized screech as the cap finally gave and ripped a chipped pink fingernail to the quick. Now cursing loudly, Donna jammed the nozzle into the filler pipe and triggered it before taking two steps back for safety and digging in her jacket pocket for her fifth cigarette of the morning.
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