Nate Golding, one of the State investigators, walked around with them. “We noticed that we left tracks in the grime on that roof when we checked it before,” he said. “There weren’t any tracks when we first went up there.”
Holland nodded. “It’s not a spot a trained sniper would choose, anyway,” he said, “escape route’s too limited.”
After they finished checking out the motel, they walked up the sidewalk to the top of the hill and looked around before going back to Clipper’s truck and driving to the steam plant parking lot at the University, which was a little less than a mile away. Miller had followed in his car and stood with them by the edge of the river relating the scanty case facts to Holland.
“From the blood spatter and where the body was found, it’s pretty obvious the shot came from over there,” he said, pointing across the river to the northwest. On the other side, through the trees that lined the riverbank, Clipper could see a cemetery.
“Huh,” Holland grunted. “Another four- to five-hundred-yard shot. Any sign of a hide over there?”
“Not that we could find. There’s places you can see over here from the cemetery, or the guy could have been in the trees or on the path that runs along the river on that side.” Miller turned to Clipper. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been checking UCR reports and the State Archives for similar MOs, and I spotted three or four old sniping cases that happened in this area in the fifties and sixties. All of ’em are still open, but I don’t see any real similarities to this one.”
“No reason there would be,” Holland said turning away from the river. “The sniper lets the lay of the land dictate his shot, for the most part.”
When they had finished at the parking lot, Clipper and Holland drove back through Orono and out to the cemetery across from the campus. Holland walked into the trees at the edge of the river and looked around a bit, then they got back in the truck and drove back down Route 2 to Bangor, to the scene of the Beaudreau shooting.
Holland spent a long time on the ridge overlooking the Kenduskeag Stream, staring at the distant County Jail compound. “Little tougher shot here,” he said. “Probably around seven hundred yards or a little more, and maybe thirty-foot declination.”
Holland was silent on the drive back to his house. He invited Clipper in for coffee, and when they were seated at his kitchen table he said, “I see three possibilities here. One, you have three random, unrelated events; two, you have one sniper who has killed three people; or three, you have two snipers, one who did Beaudreau, maybe for revenge, and one who did the two drug dealers as a…I don’t know, a public service?”
Clipper chuckled at that. “It was probably a public service in all three cases,” he said, “but I think we can eliminate the first option. I can’t believe we got three unrelated snipers out there.”
Holland nodded. “I agree,” he said, “but you might have two. What I’d like to know is how the sniper knew when and where to find his targets. Somebody obviously figured out when Beaudreau would be at the courthouse, and just found himself a hide and waited for him to be brought back to the jail. But these other two feel a little different. More like a hunter just waiting on a target of opportunity—maybe random, but then again, it’s odd that they were both dealing drugs.”
“Yeah,” Clipper said. “and it’s a little curious that we can’t pinpoint the sniper’s location in either of those like we did for Petersen and Beaudreau.”
“Well, I had a thought about that. I think maybe the snipers in Orono were shooting from a vehicle. That’s probably what I’d have done, and I think probably those shots came from a suppressed rifle. One thing’s for sure, the guy’s had some training.”
Later, Clipper gathered the troops in the conference room for an update on the Beaudreau shooting.
John Peters started. “We got no more witnesses than we started with, and so far nothing stands out in the interviews of Beaudreau’s friends and enemies.”
Randy Bissonette stood. “The only things we picked up from the sniper’s hide were a few fibers on the leaves that look like wool. Red and black; maybe a hunting jacket. Dave’s gone to Augusta with the body, but I doubt that’ll tell us anything more. One good thing—there’s enough rifling on the bullet we found to do a comparison if we ever find the gun.””
Peters spoke again. “We came up with an initial list of forty-seven people we can connect to Beaudreau or any of his victims, and I’ve got Ken, Ellen, and Evan on the interviews. But it’s going to take a while, and you know that list is gonna grow.”
Clipper nodded. “Just to add to the confusion, Doug Holland and I took a look at the two state cases in Orono, the one this morning and the one last month at the University. They look pretty similar to each other, and we can’t rule out the possibility that whoever did them did Beaudreau, too.”
“I’d think it’s more likely that we got a copycat,” said Peters after a moment. “Someone with a hard on for Beaudreau read about that first shooting and thought ‘I got a hunting rifle, why not?’”
Clipper nodded. “You may be right, but that was a damn good shot. I don’t think it was some guy with his deer rifle. Let’s bear down on the interviews, and make sure to keep ’em cross-referenced.”
Clipper was back in his office when Ellen Davis stuck her head in the door. “Got a sec, LT?”
At Clipper’s nod, she slid into a chair. “I got curious about sniping cases last night,” she said, “so I did a little research.”
Davis was in the final stages of a Law Enforcement technology degree program, and Clipper knew she loved research. She had a knack for putting together seemingly unrelated facts.
She perched on the edge of the chair. “Know how many sniping cases have been reported in Maine in the last sixty-five years?”
Clipper shook his head.
“If you filter out the hunting accidents, there were nine. Do you know how many of them were just random, innocent victims?”
Clipper shook his head again.
“None of them. With the exception of one lawyer who was apparently rumored to be dirty, all of them were convicted or accused criminals. Know how many of them happened in Bangor?”
“More than we needed,” Clipper said.
“All of them.” Davis leaned back in the chair. “Well, they were all within fifty miles or so of Bangor. There were five from 1952 to 1968, and then the four we’ve just had. And except for Petersen, they’re all unsolved. I think there might be a research paper in there somewhere.”
“Interesting,” Clipper said, “Nelson Miller mentioned that same thing to me this morning, but I don’t see how that helps us.”
“Well, I guess is doesn’t help with the recent cases, but I’m going to dig into it a little, anyway. Just thought I’d let you know.”
“I’d be interested in seeing what you come up with.”
After Davis left his office, Clipper spent a while thinking about vigilantes. As if his thoughts had conjured it, his phone rang.
The voice was hesitant. “Mr. Clipper? This is Maddy Mosier. You said I should call if…”
“Yes, Maddy, I remember. Have you got something?”
“On the news this morning. That’s him. That’s the man that tried to attack me.”
In their continuing coverage of the shooting, two of the local TV stations had been running video clips of Gerard Beaudreau as he was led out of the jail on the way to his arraignment the day before.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. His size, the way he moved, his, his shape; that was him. I told you I’d spot him.”
“Did you mention this to your grandfather?”
“No, I just figured it out. When I tell him, he’s probably going to be mad that he didn’t get a chance to shoot him.”
Maddy had no sooner hung up when Clipper’s phone chirped again. This time it was Carol Murphy.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
“We can always talk.” Clipper said neutrally.
“No, I mean… Look, I’m doing a piece about the recent snipings, and I’d like your take on it. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Thinking of Ellen Davis’s research, Clipper was curious about Murphy’s information. “Sure,” he said. “See you at Cleo’s in a half hour.”
“I may have been wrong about Harold Petersen—although he’s still a sleaze—but I was right about a serial rapist, wasn’t I?”
Clipper and Murphy were sitting at a back table at Cleo’s, and she was tense over a large cup of foamy, toffee-colored coffee.
Clipper frowned. “I guess so,” he said. “We know Beaudreau had a history, and we’re sure he raped Pecheski. The lab’s work’s not back on Amburg yet, but we may tie him to that as well. Rojas, maybe. Mosier, probably.” He shrugged. “No way to tell for sure.”
Murphy made an indecipherable sound into the coffee cup. “Well,” she said, “there’s no doubt in my mind, and now I’m getting the same feeling about all these shootings. We’ve got a sniper, don’t we?” She grimaced. “Well, two snipers. I know Rojas shot Petersen, but who shot the other three?”
Clipper was relieved that Murphy had apparently not dug as deep as Davis had. “The only thing those three cases have in common is that they were all shot at relatively long range,” he said.
“Yeah, and they all just happened to be scumbags,” Murphy shot back before he could continue. She got to her feet. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not out to create a panic, but four completely unrelated snipings in less than two months is stretching coincidence a little too thin. My story will profile the victims, and we’ll let the public decide.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thursday morning, Dave Adams was waiting when Clipper got to the office.
“Didn’t get much from the Beaudreau post. There were some lead fragments in the chest cavity, so it was probably hunting ammo, and with the fragments we got at the scene, I’d say thirty caliber. With that range, I’m thinking maybe something like a .300 magnum. I stayed down there for the post on that Jason Cord kid from Orono, too. They got a good trajectory line from the wound channel and they did a computer simulation that puts the shooter right about at the height of the motel parking lot.” He leaned forward and put his hands on Clipper’s desk. “We need that simulation program,” he said in the serious tone of a starving man demanding food.
Clipper laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “a ten-thousand-dollar program we can use for measuring flagpoles during those rare times we don’t have sniper cases to work.”
“Hell, if it’s just a matter of justifying the cost, I could go out and shoot someone every once in a while. Seriously, LT, we oughta look into it.”
Aside from Adams’s skills as a forensic investigator, the main reason that Bangor’s crime lab facilities rivaled even those of the State lab in Augusta was his constant push for the latest in technology and, in general, Clipper supported his efforts. “Check the cost and give me a written proposal,” he said.
Grinning widely, Adams pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket and dropped on Clipper’s desk. “Thanks. LT”
After reading the overnight incident reports and dealing out a burglary, a suspected embezzlement and three domestic violence cases for follow-up, Clipper called Max Trimble to bring him up to date on Beaudreau.
“I was just about to give you a call,” said Trimble. “We found our slug with a metal detector about one a.m. It’s metal jacket military, thirty-caliber, and it’s a little bashed up, but I think there’s enough rifling marks for a comparison if we ever find the rifle.”
Clipper sighed. “Last night I was just about convinced that we were looking at the same shooter, but now I’m not so sure. Your two seem a little impersonal, but Beaudreau feels like revenge; and the ammo’s different, too. Maybe we got two shooters running around out there.”
Trimble was skeptical. “I heard Channel Two’s sniffing around for a serial sniper story,” he said. “I think we ought to feel out the AG about some combined effort here—just to get our ducks in a row. My gut tells me we ain’t done with these, and the next one’s going to blow the damn lid off with the media.”
“Could be,” Clipper said. “I’ve already got Cameron Shibles checking out registered silencer owners for me. I’ll keep him up to date.”
“All right. I’m going to be in Augusta tomorrow; I’ll have a chat with the AG. Maybe we’ll luck out and the guy’s all done, but better to be prepared. I’ll stop at your place on my way back, say around four o’clock?”
After Trimble hung up, Clipper put in a call to Ray Wheeler.
“Hi, Doc,” he said when Wheeler answered his own phone. “You got time to do a little high-priced consulting?”
Wheeler laughed. “You bring your checkbook and I’ll make the time,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’m free any time after lunch today.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“From serial rapists to serial snipers, right?” Wheeler said as he and Clipper relaxed into comfortable chairs in his office.
“Well, I guess a rapist and maybe a couple of unrelated attacks,” Clipper said. I think we closed that situation out when we arrested Gerard Beaudreau, and his shooting could be a simple case of revenge…”
“But?” prompted Wheeler.
“But we’ve got three shootings in the last three weeks that have all the earmarks of a trained sniper, and two of them look like the same guy. This last one a little less so, but still.”
Wheeler grabbed an ornate pipe from a side table and began stuffing it with aromatic tobacco from a brown leather pouch. “Any connection between Beaudreau and the other two victims?”
Clipper shook his head. “Not that we can see. Except they were all scumbags.”
Wheeler puffed his pipe to life. “That may well be the connection you’re looking for,” he said. “Tell me more about the shootings.”
Clipper reiterated what they knew and surmised about the weapons and tactics of the shootings while the room filled with fragrant smoke.
Wheeler sat silently with his eyes closed for several minutes after Clipper finished. “A couple things occur to me at first glance,” he said finally. “Sniping is, after all, a military skill, and two of the weapons you’ve described have that flavor as well. I think you might look for military trained marksmen who have settled in the area recently.” He sat back and cocked his head. “The cases you’ve described do not seem to be random shootings, like some guy taking potshots at passing traffic on the interstate. So, if the victims are as unconnected as they appear except for criminal activity, you may be dealing with a vigilante.”
Clipper nodded. “I’d thought of that,” he said. “That’s what drove Ramon Rojas to shoot Harold Petersen, and I can understand why he did it—he was convinced Petersen was the man who attacked his daughter—but what the hell prompts someone to just start shooting people just because they might be criminals?”
“Could be any number of reasons,” Wheeler said. “Perhaps your shooter was a victim himself at some point in time. Or someone close to him was. Or perhaps he or she simply believes they have a mandate to remove some particular brand of evil from the world. In Mister Rojas’s case, it looks to have been personal revenge, but for someone else it could simply be moral outrage.” He shrugged. “Or the voices in their head.”
After Clipper left Ray Wheeler, he stopped at Cleo’s for the lunch special and then went back to the office and called Cameron Shibles.
“Hey, Cameron,” he said when the call went through, “I need another favor. Can you get me a list of any former military snipers living in Maine?”
“Way ahead of you, my son,” replied Shibles. “I should have it any time now, along with your list of silencer owners. Figured you might need it.”
Clipper chuckled. “I guess that’s why you’re a Fed and I’m just a lowly village constable. We’re probably going to put together an unofficial task force—us, SP, UMPD, Orono, maybe the SO. We’d love t
o have you sit in.”
“Just let me know, I’ll be there.”
At quarter of four, Max Trimble poked his head into Clipper’s office.
“Spoke to the AG,” he said. “He’s on board with whatever we want to do in terms of a task force.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Although it still lacked ten minutes of seven a.m. and a cold wind out of the north had sent the mercury plunging overnight, Cleo’s parking lot was full to overflowing on Friday morning. A good bit of the crowd consisted of the regulars, working men and women fueling up for an early start to the workday or long weekend, but Clipper knew at least twenty of the cars belonged to the Geezers. He found a spot for his truck and made his way inside, through the main dining area to the private room at the back, grinning at the thought of the reception he knew awaited him.
“Ha, lookie-here,” bellowed Ed Monk when Clipper stepped into the doorway. His voice carried from his seat at the far side of a horseshoe arrangement of tables. “I guess they must’ve canceled kiddie-school today.”
Peering over the rim of his coffee cup, Davie Murchison was more thoughtful. “Doesn’t look smart enough to be in school,” he mused. “I’m thinking he’s prob’ly a runaway.”
“You’d think people would keep their idiot kids on a shorter leash,” muttered an always irascible Carlton “Pinky” Lobbing.
Clipper pasted an eager look on his face. “I’m looking for my daddy, and someone told me he was in here.” He walked over to Lobbing and put his arm around his shoulder. “Please, sir, are you my daddy?” he asked plaintively.
It was pretty well understood that any sense of humor Lobbing might ever have had was carried away along with the little finger on his left hand in a 1966 gunfight with a drunken lumberjack outside the Silver Dollar Cafe, so Clipper was ready for his reaction. Lobbing’s inarticulate reply was lost in the howls of laughter from around the table as he flung off Clipper’s arm and launched a clumsy backhanded swipe.
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