American Sniper

by Ian Patterson

  Denver, Colorado

  BY NOON A DECISION had been made. Via teleconference, twelve Special Agents in Charge in field offices occupying territory west of the Continental Divide appointed Denver SAC Arthur Dubnyk, among them, to raise the alarm with Deputy Director of the FBI, Gloria Resnick.

  They split evenly by thirds on whether the shooter was a serial killer, an Islamic extremist, or a domestic terrorist.

  Dubnyk said, “Let Resnick make the call ladies and gents. She’ll probably lead the investigation herself.”

  As second in command to the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Deputy Director is the highest position attainable within the FBI without being appointed by the President of the United States. Responsibilities include assisting the Director and taking the lead in prominent investigations. With a multi-State kill-count exceeding thirty known victims, prominent was an understatement, thought Dubnyk.

  Later, over the telephone to the DD in Washington, he said: “Similar weapon, ma’am; without shell casings, we can’t verify for certain if it’s an exact match, but we believe it to be a military-grade long-range sniper rifle.

  “Thirty-two victims that we know over seventy-three days in each of the twelve States with territory west of the Continental Divide. Never more than one-shot-one-kill, never more than two-at-a-time. Victims range in age from seventy-eight years to twenty-one. A random mix of female, male, Caucasian, African American, Asian, Latino, Native American, wealthy, unemployed, homeless. Locations include urban, rural, public, and remote settings. Acquires and puts down the targets morning, noon, and night and always from a range of a thousand yards or more. Only thing he—or she—hasn’t yet done is kill a kid. Not yet. Thank God for small mercies.”

  “I fail to see a silver lining, Special Agent.”

  “Don’t mean to suggest a silver lining, ma’am. Only to say a shooter picking-off kids in the playground or at the shopping mall? Well, that could cause a different kind of conversation at the dinner table.”

  “Point taken,” Resnick replied, after which she remained silent. Then: “That we know of?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re tracking homicide data nationwide. So far only thirty-two reported victims of death by long-range firearm. Of course, there could be a cadaver or two sitting on ice in a local morgue waiting to be examined or rotting in a forest or a farmer’s field. Thirty-two is the for certain kill-count we know of.”

  “Local authorities?”

  “Are happy to defer to the Bureau.”

  Resnick chuckled sardonically. “After the mess we made of Vegas and Parkland? It’s a wonder anyone trusts us.”

  Though neither Resnick nor Dubnyk was involved personally in either of those catastrophic failures, they carried the weight of guilt just the same.

  “What, exactly, do we know, Dubnyk?”

  “We’ve processed a mountain of data uploaded from the locals, national, international, and military databases, ma’am. Aside from knowing that the weapon involved in each incident is a military-grade long-range sniper rifle and the shooter knows how to use it, we know bugger-all.”

  “Bugger-all?” Resnick said, an edge to her tone.

  On the line, Dubnyk sighed.

  “The shooter is mobile, Madam Deputy Director. He moves fluidly from location to location with no apparent pattern. We’re tracking bank withdrawals, credit card purchases including gasoline, food-service and outdoor stores, hotel and motel registrations, planes, trains, buses, and automobile rentals all to detect a pattern. We’ve studied thousands of hours of CCTV from airports, train stations, bus terminals, taxi cabs, and anywhere selling firearms including pawn shops, gun shows and exchanges, Walmart and other retailers. So far, nada. Could be he has a vehicle, or vehicles, at his disposal. He’s not jacking cars, because we checked. For fuel, he may have access to a private fuel dump. Could be he sleeps outdoors in a tent, shits in the woods, pays cash for his purchases, hunts for and guts his own dinner.”

  “A survivalist?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Third-party support?”

  “Possibly that, too.”

  “Organized?”

  “Could be but doesn’t look like a coordinated effort.”

  “A serial killer?”

  “If he is a psychopath, he’s a damn smart one. All we really know with any certainty is where the kill-shots originate. He’s left us no prints, no casings, no DNA, no clues at the scene. Not so much as a cigarette butt. Tracing the weapon will prove difficult.”

  “Define difficult.”

  “There are seventy thousand licensed gun dealers across the country and twice that many again selling weapons and ammo illegally, black-market, and under the table at shows, ma’am, to say nothing of the online marketplace. We may never identify a purchase location. Ditto for the ammo, which from analysis we know to be from various lots from different manufacturers country-wide, most likely purchased from multiple sources and locations. The shooter has put a lot of time and thought into this, ma’am, possibly plotting out his moves months in advance, if not longer. He slinks into town, takes a couple of pot-shots, and next day—maybe next hour—poof, he’s gone like a ghost, local authorities are left to clean up the mess and wonder.”

  “You’re certain we’re dealing with one shooter, not two, more?”

  “Given the geographic distance and time between kills, it’s entirely possible the shooter is operating solo. Could be a duo, trio, quartet, baker’s dozen for all we know.”

  Resnick considered this. She said, “He’s not taking credit, Dubnyk. What’s your take on this?”

  “No ma’am, he’s not. So far, the Shooter isn’t talking.”

  “Nothing on Facebook, social media?”

  “He isn’t live-streaming yet if it’s what you mean.”

  “Another silver lining, Special Agent?”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Mobile phone chatter?”

  “Nothing the NSA is willing to share.”

  “Internet searches and traffic?”

  “Nothing the NSA is willing to share.”

  “Ex-military?”

  “He got his training somewhere, didn’t he?”

  “Is the absence of a pattern a pattern in itself?”

  “We’re exploring the possibility, ma’am.”

  “Islamic extremist, domestic terrorist? What’s your call, Special Agent?”

  “Call him what you will, ma’am. Whatever gets us the resources we need to put him down.”

  After discussing logistics, the DD disconnected, leaving Dubnyk free to order-in a late lunch.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Washington, DC

  “I KNOW A GUY, WHO KNOWS A GUY, who knows a guy,” said Dabney Berkshire seated across the table from FBI Deputy Director Gloria Resnick. Berkshire sucked at the cubes of a second Jack Daniels Manhattan. “Supposedly, a guy with crosses to bear.”

  “I’m not looking for a guy out to make amends, Berk.”

  With Congress in recess, it had been easy to secure a table at The Capitol’s most popular restaurant. The Monocle is just a stone’s throw from the rear entrances to the Hart and Dirksen Senate Office buildings on D St. N.E. in Washington DC. The Monocle opened on Capitol Hill in October nineteen sixty just as two young senators, who were friends and regular customers, John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon, were battling it out for the presidency. A photo of every President since Kennedy lines the walls, though the owner once discovered Nixon’s picture in the Ladies Room taken out of its frame and ripped to shreds.

  Resnick had arrived at the restaurant on foot from the J. Edgar Hoover Building a mile away. Berkshire, Assistant Deputy Director of the Counter-Terrorism Center of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, had been delivered by private car from the George Bush Center for Intelligence. A crash-up on the George Washington Memorial Parkway had caused him a twenty-minute delay on the twelve-mile journey from CIA Headquarters in Langley.

  “Your shoot
er is no Stephen Paddock, Rez,” said Berkshire, referring to the Las Vegas country music mass shooting in which fifty-nine died. “He’s not a whack-job intent on killing as many as he can as fast as he can and committing suicide by cop. He isn’t using a bump stock, he’s using a precision instrument. You need to respond in kind.”

  “In-kind? I have no idea what you even mean by that, Berk.”

  “You want a guy who thinks like he thinks, moves like he moves. A guy who can put down a target from twenty-five hundred yards out.”

  Resnick scoffed. “I don’t need one lunatic chasing another lunatic across the country with a high power weapon. I was thinking a sharing of information, not handing the bloody investigation over to you.”

  Berkshire grinned. “Why? You think he’s one of ours?”

  With a gesture, Resnick waved him off.

  Resnick and Berkshire were friends from their time as graduate students at Stanford University. There, Berk had earned a Ph.D. in mathematics specializing in advanced predictive analytics and Rez her doctorate in behavioral science followed in short order by her J.D., LL.M., and S.J.D. Over the years, they’d remained in touch.

  “Join me in a cocktail, Gloria.” When Resnick declined, he said, “When did you become such a bloody nun?” He raised his own glass, tinkled the ice to summon a waiter from across the room. Tapping the tumbler with a forefinger, he indicated Another!

  “Listen, Rez, your shooter is picking-off citizens randomly with remarkable ease and efficiency. You won’t put him down using standard law enforcement operating procedure. You need a guy who’s been there, done that. No disrespect to you and your people, but you’re Boy Scouts.”

  As a former Los Angeles County Prosecutor, Resnick resented Berkshire his tone. She’d left the DA’s office twenty years ago to join the Bureau’s LA Field Office as a Special Agent. After almost a decade successfully investigating high-profile organized crime, child pornography, and human trafficking cases, she was promoted to Special Agent in Charge of the San Diego Field Office. Three years later, she returned to the much larger LA office as Assistant Director in Charge.

  Seven years later, Resnick arrived in Washington, age fifty-two, as the Bureau’s first-ever female Deputy Director.

  As DD, Resnick had privately rooted for a Clinton Presidential victory over Trump, thinking it her best chance to replace the Bureau’s then embattled Director. Now, the best she could hope for was a grand political gesture from a man who thought it was okay to grab a woman’s crotch.

  “This isn’t a military exercise, Dabney. Or a clandestine operation.”

  “With a lifetime in law enforcement, Gloria, you can be forgiven thinking so. Don’t be naive.”

  “So, you’re saying the shooter is ex-military?” Then, on second thought, “Or claiming he’s one of yours?”

  Berkshire’s drink arrived. Steepling his fingers as if to protect it from an unwanted advance, he said, “I won’t speculate, Gloria. But consider this.” He gulped his drink. “The shooter is selective and—notwithstanding the body-count—remarkably restrained. He doesn’t want to create a public panic or attract media attention. If he did, he’d be shooting up schoolyards, shopping malls, or country music concerts in Vegas.

  “He’s happy for you to know he’s operating, but careful to avoid publicity hence no claim to responsibility, taking no credit. He operates both strategically and tactically, which says a lot about his capabilities. His actions, to date, are contrary to the established norm of either a domestic terrorist or an Islamic extremist. Those whack-jobs want to inflict maximum casualties in the shortest amount of time to get their dirty mugs on FOX News.”

  Resnick frowned. “You think he’s using the public as target practice?”

  “Not target practice. To the shooter, each kill is meaningful, each body a stepping-stone to accomplishing some greater goal.”

  “Which is what, do you think?”

  Summoning the waiter to place the order for food, Berkshire said, “No idea. But I know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows a guy who might.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Antimony, Utah

  THE TWIN ENGINE VULCANAIR descended through a layer of low lying rain-cloud. To Tara, it resembled a turkey buzzard riding the updraft of a thermal wave, its ugly beak sniffing at the air for carrion. Through a veil of gathering mist, she watched Mathias from the doorway of the ranch-house as he waited patiently at the edge of a makeshift grass landing strip fifty yards away.

  From here, he looked small and insignificant. With his hands pushed deep into the hip pockets of his blue jeans and his slicker pulled low over his eyes, he seemed child-like. The symbolism made Tara’s heart lurch.

  Tara hoped the plane would crash, disintegrate into a ball of flame and scorched debris, explode on impact with no survivors. Unexpectedly, and to her delight, a crosswind caused the plane to wobble precariously from side-to-side on approach. For a hopeful moment, Tara held her breath. But the pilot quickly corrected. The aircraft settled smoothly to the ground.

  Tara watched as Mathias presented himself to the lone occupant like a lamb to slaughter. Or perhaps Mathias was already dead, had been since the Registan, and she’d refused to accept she was living with a ghost.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Antimony, Utah

  WITH A SLICE OF BREAD, Dabney Berkshire mopped the last of his venison stew from the bottom of the bowl. With an exaggerated smack, he licked his lips. With a gulp, he drained the final two inches of beer from a bottle of watery Coors Light. Berkshire pushed back from the table like a fat man sated.

  Standing, he patted his flat belly. Stretching his wiry five-foot-eight frame, he said, “Bravo, Tara. You’ve adapted well to life in the hinterland. I must say I had my doubts. Clearly, I was wrong. You’ve found your métier.”

  Cautioned by Mathias to swallow her tongue, Tara squelched-down a caustic reply. Instead, she said plainly, “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  To Mathias, he said, “You bag the stag yourself? Range? A hundred, five hundred, a thousand yards out? Doesn’t matter. You were always one of the best.”

  From the dining room, Berkshire wandered to the adjoining great room. Taking in the space with the eye of a practiced observer, he noted the rough-hewn wood beam cathedral ceiling; the field-stone fireplace with a burnished Mountain Mahogany mantelpiece flanked either side by double French doors; the view facing out to a dry gulch and, beyond that, the Sevier Plateau obscured, now, by the creeping gloom of dusk. Deep-seated, well-worn matching leather sofas, side-tables, and an assortment of knick-knacks and brick-a-brack gave the impression of a place well and happily occupied.

  Or to make it seem that way.

  Staring through the glass at the falling dark, Berkshire said, “You’ve made yourselves quite a home, here, kids. With Brookbank Security’s money.”

  Tara tensed, ready to pounce. A glance from Mathias warned her off.

  “What’s it like to live in a place like this? To sacrifice the convenience and amenities of urban living? Not me; I’d be lost without my mod-cons—Wi-Fi and my morning Starbucks.” Berkshire chuckled. “I suppose it’s the frontier spirit, eh? That uniquely American quality in us all.” Sounding whimsical, he said, “Well, at the end of the day, we’re all Patriots at heart, aren’t we?” Turning to Tara, he said, “I don’t mean to offend—you do have a beautiful spread, and God knows you’re a wizard at the hob—but don’t you miss the go-go world of the Capitol?”

  While at Brookbank Security Solutions, Tara had worked directly with Dabney Berkshire. To her, Berkshire was a shadowy government operative lurking behind the scenes. Because of her position as an emergency response extraction coordinator working rotating twenty-four hour overnight shifts, Tara was able to observe Berkshire more closely than most. She found him to be dismissive and glib, more concerned with results than in protecting human life. Tara didn’t trust him. But perhaps that was just a personal bias.

  “We have high-speed internet,” she answer
ed. “So, I suppose I don’t.”

  “And you?” he said, turning to Mathias. “Are you happily-ever-after living here?”

  Expression noncommittal, Mathias replied, “It’s said we spend more, per capita, on fireworks than any other town in the state of Utah.”

  Berkshire smiled. With a clap of his hands, he said, “But are you content?”

  With a furtive glance to Tara, Mathias said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Berkshire nodded as if he knew better. He said, “You got anything stronger than beer?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Antimony, Utah

  “ME? I PREFER JACK DANIELS,” Berkshire said, contemplating the steam rising from his mug of coffee laced with a generous dose of Jim Beam.

  Mathias shrugged. “Best I could do on short notice.”

  “You still off the hooch?”

  “One thousand four hundred eighty-three days and counting.”

  Raising his mug in salute, Berkshire said, “Congrats, my friend, but abstinence is overrated.”

  In the horse barn, the temperature had dropped to below fifty degrees. Berkshire’s words projected from his lips with a puff of steam. Average in stature and appearance, to Mathias, Berkshire was the most physically unremarkable and nondescript human specimen he knew. Berkshire could be anything from a professor to a priest, an insurance underwriter to a serial rapist. The man defied categorization. But despite his lofty title, Berkshire was, at heart, a Spook, both physically and intellectually well-suited to The Game.

  Finishing first in his class at Stanford with a four-point-oh GPA, Berkshire had been recruited to the CIA immediately upon graduating. Arriving in Washington, he’d been set to the task of forecasting future terrorist activity—both domestic and foreign—using proprietary quantitative, predictive mathematical analysis developed by himself.

  With the election of Bill Clinton, Berkshire’s analytic skill-set fell from favor, the administration preferring a more qualitative approach to intelligence gathering based on opinion, experience in the field, conjecture, and personal impressions. Suddenly, diary accounts, open-ended questionnaires, unstructured interviews, and observations—all skewed by a bleeding-heart personal bias—superseded objective, quantitative analytical analysis.