“Cats, huh?” Already moving on, I scanned the lobby and wondered what we were missing.
Ten thousand dollars was nothing to laugh at, but this was a small bank branch, with few customers. Had the perp hit one of the larger branches up the street, he’d have walked away with at least double the cash, if not more.
This was too clean of a job, too well organized, for an amateur. But it was risky; a robbery in the middle of the day, even timed perfectly, had the potential to become a disaster, very quickly.
This was bold; like Caleb Montgomery’s murder, it made a statement.
It was curious to think about Caleb’s death now; the two crimes were obviously unrelated, but there were subtle similarities there, lurking beneath the surface.
“How about the manager or the other teller?”
Finn pointed to the street. “I’ve got an officer interviewing them in the coffee shop across the street. Nothing there that screams they’re involved. They, like Bullock, are longtime employees. Both married, each with a couple of kids. Steady folks.”
I nodded and glanced up at the three cameras set high in the ceiling, each with a different view of the bank. “Tell me we got lucky.”
“We might have. A tech is checking footage.” Finn rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. “I’ve got to say, I don’t like this one bit. Esposito was on the ground, vulnerable. Whoever shot him has a violent streak. And he might be out there now, on our streets. Just like the bastard who killed Caleb Montgomery.”
“Hey, Detectives?” The voice belonged to a crime scene tech, a young woman who at that moment leaned out into the hallway from a door a few feet away. She had an excited look on her face. “You better come take a look.”
We joined her in the small, cramped room. It was little more than a closet, with a low wooden table that held a computer and two monitors. Dozens of cables ran from the computer to terminals on the floor, then continued up to the ceiling. I assumed they were linked to the cameras on the other side of the wall.
The tech pecked at the keyboard, then hit Enter as a “play video” icon appeared. A strong sense of déjà vu swept over me. It had only been a few days since Finn and I had traveled to the Cathedrals and watched the mine manager, Frank Poe, hit Play on a similar video.
A similar video, of a similarly strange crime.
The recording offered a clear view of the muscular man who entered the bank, though his head was tilted and it was impossible to see his face. The images were in black-and-white. We watched in silence as the man slipped a gas mask on, then stood where he could train his gun first on Esposito, then on Bullock. My earlier thought had been correct; it did look like something out of a movie. I half expected military troops to start storming the bank or B-52 bombers to pepper the sky with their loud engines.
On the screen, Esposito lay down and placed his hands over his head. Across the bank lobby, Dee Bullock moved slowly from one till to the next, pulling cash out of each drawer and stuffing it into the bag the perp handed her. Her mouth opened and shut, over and over, though it was hard to tell if she was speaking or simply moving her lips and jaws in shock, like a fish caught suddenly out of water.
“Is there sound?” I asked.
“No,” the tech responded.
The man grabbed the bag of cash from Bullock’s hands before she was finished. Maybe he’d gotten frustrated by her slow movements, or by her talking, if that was in fact what she’d been doing. Then he bent over, fiddling with something on the counter, while Bullock threw her hands over her face and covered her eyes, unable to take any more.
The gunman moved on to Esposito. For a moment, it appeared as though he were going to step over the security guard and walk out, but then he paused. I watched in horror as he leaned down, put his mouth to Esposito’s ear, then stepped back and shot the guard in the back twice, with absolutely no hesitation between shots.
Finn, the tech, and I all flinched as Esposito’s body twitched in response, then went deathly still.
“Gas Mask Guy leaves at this point.” The tech lightly touched the screen. “Watch, you can see Bullock lean down a bit to hit the panic button. Then she makes her way to Esposito.”
On the screen, Bullock reached the security guard and rolled him over. The bullet had gone through him and blood began to spill forth. Bullock removed her cardigan and pressed it against his chest, trying to stem the flow, but it was a losing battle. The cardigan quickly turned dark. Finally, paramedics and uniformed officers entered the building and attended to the employees.
Something bothered me about the video. “Play it again, please.”
Finn asked if I’d seen something.
“Maybe.” I watched as on the screen, the scene unfolded again. “He’s slipping something under the counter, did you see?”
I stepped out of the closet and quickly made my way to the front of the lobby, my heels beating a rapid staccato on the floor. I peered under the customer counter, between the wood shelf and the granite top. Something was there, something clear and plastic.
“What is it?” Finn asked. He and the tech had followed me.
“I’m not sure,” I said, and ran a gloved hand under the counter.
Finn gripped my arm, holding it in place. “Are you sure you should do that? It could be a trap.”
He was right, but I was too close at that point, too committed and too curious. I tugged at the plastic until I felt it pop loose, then pulled it out.
“Oh my God,” I breathed when I saw what it was.
Confused, the tech asked, “Is that a … comic book?”
“Not just any comic book. It’s Ghost Boy.”
Chapter Fourteen
We were already tossing theories back and forth by the time we got to the police station.
“What’s the connection?” Finn’s voice was animated; the way it got when things started coming together. “Gas Mask Guy leaves the same comic book at the bank that our team found on the roof where we think Montgomery’s sniper holed up. But Gas Mask Guy doesn’t look anything like the dynamite thief, who’s likely the sniper. Gas Mask Guy is trim, muscular. The dynamite thief was grossly overweight.”
We parked and exited the car. I was anxious, shaken by what I’d found. Finn held the door, then followed me into the station and back to our desks in the squad room, still talking. “None of it makes sense. There’s the question of motive, to start. Why would someone murder a retired judge and a week later, rob a bank and shoot a guard? First Pillar’s been on the decline for years. The guy made off with ten grand, nothing to laugh at, but honestly, hardly worth the effort. Especially if he could then be linked back to a murder charge in an earlier crime.”
“There’s got to be a connection between Montgomery and the bank. Or maybe the connection is between Montgomery and Esposito. There could be a hit out on both of them.” I was thinking out loud, trying to make sense of the seemingly senseless. “Could that be it? The bomb that killed Montgomery was a professional job. Did you see the way the gunman shot Esposito? No hesitation, just a cold, quick double tap to the back. Expert techniques in both cases.”
Finn sat down, rubbed his eyes. “Jesus, you’re talking hit men, Mafia-type killers. In Cedar Valley.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
My phone rang. It was one of our officers, who’d followed the paramedics to the hospital.
“Bad news, Monroe. Esposito passed away. The doctors did everything they could to save him, but the injury was too grave. One bullet pierced his lung, the other his heart.”
“Damn it. Did he ever regain consciousness? I’d like to have known what the suspect said to Esposito before he shot him.”
“No, the poor guy never came around. Whatever the gunman said to him, Esposito will take it to the grave. I did request that the doctors try to retrieve the bullets from him, and they were able to do that. I’ll take them to the lab now.”
“Great, thank you. Tell them it’s the highest priority.” That wa
s one nice thing about being a detective in a small town that had years ago budgeted for a state-of-the-art lab. While we saw violence, we didn’t see enough of it to run into the backlogs and delays that some of the bigger cities did. As a result, every request was treated as a priority.
Finn walked to the wall and added to the notes already there. “We started the Montgomery homicide investigation thinking there was a link either to the threatening letters he’d received or to Edith Montgomery herself, on account of the pending divorce. Based on your conversations with Colleen Holden and Gordon Dillahunt, we can safely eliminate them. Edith … I’m undecided. But I am certain that the First Pillar bank robbery has nothing to do with the Montgomery homicide. Totally different MO’s and motives.”
I snorted. “Aside from a vintage comic book placed at or near each crime scene.”
“Hey, guys.”
I turned to see Jimmy standing behind me, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Detective Moriarty said I should hang out with you two for today.”
“Jimmy, it’s Saturday. Go home.” Finn reached into his back pocket and slipped out his wallet. “I’ll give you twenty bucks to go see a movie, take a lady friend out for a root beer float.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Okay, Dad, whatever you say. Listen, I’m bored at home. I want to be here. I want to help. Moriarty said you two caught another case. So … tell me the haps.”
The intern wouldn’t be deterred, and to be honest, he was actually turning out to be rather helpful. I explained what had happened that morning, watching as Jimmy’s eyes got wider and wider. After I finished, I said, “Look at what Finn’s written. Do you see any patterns, any connections?”
The intern scanned the board. “Why were these victims targeted? Is it random or purposeful? Judge Montgomery, while his killing was obviously planned, could have been chosen randomly. Was Esposito? A public place, in the middle of the day. The tolerance for risk seems high. And the comic book … what the hell is that all about? Did you read it? Maybe there’s a message inside. So far, that’s the only thing these murders have in common.”
“The comic book I found at the bank is with evidence. I’ll let forensics have the first crack at it. But we should look at the comic that was discovered on the restaurant roof. I know it’s already been processed. Jimmy, would you get it from the lab?”
He nodded and jogged from the room, practically tripping over his shoes in his eagerness to be helpful. While we waited, Lucas Armstrong stood up from his desk and joined us, a strange expression on his face. He held his cell phone out to me, the screen showing a television station. “Did you see this?”
The three of us watched in silence as the redheaded weekend reporter brushed hair from her eyes. She stood outside on the windy plateau of the Belle Vista Penitentiary and spoke, her voice grave. “Yes, Jerry, as I was saying, Gordon Dillahunt had been serving consecutive life sentences for the Jawbreaker murders, a killing spree that claimed victims from New Mexico to Montana. Let’s hope his death brings some measure of peace to the families of the victims. Back to you in the studio, Jerry.”
“Dillahunt’s dead?” I sank slowly into my desk chair, numb. “What happened?”
Armstrong perched on the edge of the desk and drew a hand over his face. “They’re not reporting it on the news, but I heard that Dillahunt used one of his bedsheets.”
“He hung himself?”
Armstrong grimaced. “No. He shoved the fabric down his throat, blocking his own airway, then wound it around his head, covering his nose. He suffocated. Hell of a way to go.”
I thought about the small man with the perfectly even, white teeth. I’d seen him yesterday. Could the news of Montgomery’s death have been so devastating it drove him to suicide?
Armstrong was asking me something.
“What did you say?” I tried to clear my head of the fog that had suddenly descended.
“What does this do to your case?”
I was at a loss. “I don’t know. I don’t believe Caleb’s murder is tied to Dillahunt and yet Dillahunt truly believed Caleb had turned a blind eye to planted evidence, corrupt cops. Edith herself said Caleb lived with the guilt of something he’d done, years ago, in the courtroom.”
Armstrong shrugged. “Maybe one of those cops decided to do some housecleaning. Take out Montgomery and no one’s the wiser.”
I lowered my voice. “The problem is, the two cops that secured Dillahunt’s arrest are Chief Chavez and Sheriff Rose Underhill. Digging into their pasts is a hornet’s nest that I don’t believe we can kick at the moment. Not with Esposito’s death, not now. Especially given that there simply can’t be a connection between Esposito’s killing and the Dillahunt trial.”
My phone rang again. It was the ballistics lab, and the tech, a young guy from Chicago named Rusty, was excited. His words came quickly, tumbling out of his mouth. “Man, I’m sorry about the dude who got shot, but you made my freaking day. It’s not often I get to handle a Nambu pistol. Awesome.”
“A what?”
“A Nambu. The gun you recovered at the bank scene is a pre–World War II Type 14 Nambu pistol. Gorgeous. It’s in most excellent condition. You know these things are collector’s items, right?”
“Really?” My mind was racing. There were a hell of a lot of gun enthusiasts in the region. A Nambu pistol might be rare enough that its provenance could be traced.
“Really. I kid you not. I know what you’re thinking. How does a thing of beauty like this end up thousands of miles from home? Well, I can answer that for you. Or at least try to. If I had to guess, it was purchased and then brought back from Japan by a returning serviceman. You know, after World War II?”
“A souvenir?” I turned to my computer and entered the gun name into the search engine. “I’m looking at it online right now. That’s definitely the same gun we pulled from the scene.”
Rusty snorted into the phone. “Of course it is. They don’t pay me to make mistakes. And yes, exactly like a souvenir. The guys brought back all sorts of deadly, dangerous things; guns, binoculars, daggers. Bayonets. Wives.”
“Wives?”
“Wives.” Rusty paused and I heard the tab of a soda can pop open. The tech was notorious for his addiction to diet cola. He took a noisy sip, then continued, “So, I’m about to make your day. Do you remember seeing a couple of tiny symbols on the pistol?”
“Yes. Are they serial numbers?”
“What, are you trying to do my job for me? Of course they’re serial numbers. That first symbol, the circle with the smaller circles within it, that’s from the Nagoya Arsenal. Give me a couple of days and I can tell you exactly when and where the gun was manufactured.”
“You’re kidding. The records go back that far?”
“Gemma, there are two things I never joke about: ballistics and doughnuts. And my mom. I guess I don’t really joke about my mom.”
“Got it. Listen, Mike Esposito died. The doctors were able to retrieve the bullets. They’re on their way to you right now.”
Rusty sighed deeply. “Poor bastard. He was a hell of a shortstop. Made some damn fine home brew, too.” More background noise as Rusty murmured to someone else in the lab. “The bullets are here. I got to go, Gemma. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Thanks. I owe you big-time.”
“Nah, this one’s on me. Like I said, it’s not every day I get to see something so cool. Freaking awesome.”
We ended the call. I shared with Finn what I’d learned. He added the new information to the notes we’d already written on the wall, then stepped back and rubbed his hands together. “This is getting stranger and stranger. Why slip on a vintage gas mask and then kill someone using a pistol from the same era? What’s the message there? It’s like with Caleb’s death … the drama of it all. Maybe that’s the point … to distract us with these flashy methods—a car bomb, a souvenir pistol—so that we don’t see what’s right in front of us. Did Montgomery serve in the war?”
I did so
me quick math in my head. “No, he missed it by about twenty years, I think.”
“And Mike Esposito was definitely too young,” Finn murmured. “We should look at their relatives. Montgomery’s father, maybe Esposito’s grandfather. These killings could be revenge for something that occurred during the war.”
“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me.” I tilted my head, thinking about the bank robbery. “What if Esposito was in on it? We’ve seen it before; one guy supplies all the information and the second does the robbery. How did the perp know what time to hit the bank? How did he know there’d only be two people there? There had to be an inside man or woman.”
Jimmy returned from the lab, a bag of pastries tucked under his left arm and the comic book under his right. “I took a detour,” he proudly announced, and dropped the pastries on my desk. “I know you love these.”
Although a part of me wondered why he was buttering me up, a larger part smelled the cinnamon and sugar. Reluctantly, I set aside the treats until after I had a look at the comic book.
I slipped on a fresh pair of gloves and cut open the top of the evidence bag with a pair of scissors. Inside, the comic was still encased in the protective sleeve it had been found in. I opened that, too, and held the thin, light comic in my hands. I flipped through the pages, reading the bubble captions and studying the sketches.
The comic mirrored what I’d found online; the Ghost Boy character was a skilled martial artist and a double agent for Japan whose own mother had been a KGB officer. It was a violent comic; every other page seemed to depict another bloody match between the villain, Ghost Boy, and a less-skilled and therefore quickly killed U.S. soldier or marine.
I handed it to Finn, who skimmed it, then passed it off to Jimmy.
It was Jimmy who, a number of minutes later, finally spoke up. “What if the comic itself is the message?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Go on.”
He lifted his cell phone into the air and waved it back and forth. “You’ve only seen two issues in the series. But Ghost Boy’s whole story is here, online. It was a thirteen-issue series that ran between 1982 and 1983 and then mysteriously and abruptly ended. Fans were devastated. Riots nearly broke out.”
Shatter the Night Page 17
