Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

“He’s all about following protocol and procedure to the letter. He’s too fresh-faced to realize that sometimes you have to fudge a little.” I sat down and took a long sip. “The job’s a lot easier when you see things in black and white, but when the consequences could potentially be life or death and your only options are to wait for a warrant or bust through the door in order to save someone, then you bust through the door. He just doesn’t get it. Truthfully, I hope he never does.”

  Martin kissed my temple and picked up his briefcase. “Try not to bust through any doors today. I’ll see you tonight.” He went to the stairs while I watched from my perch at the kitchen table. “Y’know, I love that I can say that every day.”

  “Sap.”

  On the way upstairs, my cell phone rang. It was Dobson returning my call from yesterday. After agreeing to meet for breakfast to discuss things in person, I tossed on some casual clothes. Making sure I had the gym address written down for later, I ran through my mental checklist, hoping Jack Fletcher would phone soon, and drove to a diner near the federal courthouse.

  Lou Dobson was seated at the counter, sipping from a steaming mug. I slid onto the stool next to him and eyed the menu hanging against the wall. After ordering and exchanging some basic pleasantries, I scanned the rest of the diner. The place was pretty empty. Two older men were seated at the other end of the counter, and a couple sat in the back corner booth. Other than that, it was too late for the breakfast crowd and too early for lunchtime.

  “Are you back on duty?” I asked, attempting to be polite.

  “I’ve been cleared, but courthouse security is still being evaluated. While that happens, a group of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed youngsters is patrolling the premises.” He made an aggravated groan, picking up his spoon and gulping down a mouthful of something that looked like the love child of oatmeal and cream of wheat.

  “I’m sorry things are taking so long.”

  “What do you want, Agent Parker?” Dobson asked, dropping all pretenses. “You didn’t want to meet just to have someone to share a meal.”

  “My agency has been tasked with tracking the shooter. From the intel we’ve collected, it’s safe to assume he spent a bit of time planning this.”

  “How much time?”

  “At least a week. He needed the time to pick his perch.”

  “And you think that I might have missed noticing him?” The accusatory, defensive tone crept into his words, and he slammed the spoon down. “I was cleared.”

  “Hold your horses, cowboy. What I’m asking is if you wouldn’t mind going into a few more details about the past two weeks.” He looked skeptical, so I added, “It’s off-the-record. In fact, no one at my office even knows I’m here. They think my theory on the matter is farfetched.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  Hesitating briefly, I considered Dobson’s position and status. The simple fact was he already knew the details surrounding the double homicide. Speaking about this to him wasn’t violating any privilege, and hopefully, he’d be more willing to hear me out than Agent Lucca.

  “I’m not convinced the prosecutor was the primary target. I believe the dead juror was,” I said.

  He considered my words for a few minutes while he aimlessly stirred the remaining porridge. “All right. If the killer was poking around during jury selection, then you should check out the vantage points for that area.” He pulled a napkin free from the holder and removed a pen from his shirt pocket. He drew a square and a few lines. “This is the courthouse.” He added a compass in the corner. “Front steps are here.” He pointed with his pen. “People who get called to show up for jury duty come in the front, go through the security checkpoints, and are ushered down the stairs.” He frowned. “Have you pulled the records from that day? Maybe the killer tried to get inside the courthouse but couldn’t get through security.”

  Grabbing a napkin of my own, I scribbled that down to check later. Our waitress came by, refilling my coffee and giving us both a strange look. It wasn’t every day that two people sat at the counter and used the napkins to make lists and draw rudimentary blueprints. Thankfully, she didn’t ask what we were doing.

  “Do you remember someone being denied entry?” I asked.

  “It happens all the time. People carry the damnedest things around with them.” He continued working on his sketch. “As I was saying, they go down the stairs and wait to get called for the jury panels. That floor is slightly below street level, and the windows,” he pointed with the tip of his pen, “are only partially blocked by the building’s shrubbery. It’s one of the weaknesses that I’ve mentioned in my reports, but considering that area serves as a giant waiting room, no one in charge was ever concerned about it.”

  “Why didn’t he take the shot then?”

  “Come on,” Dobson dropped some money on the counter, “we’ll stop by and get the security footage from that day, and I’ll show you the windows.”

  “Thanks, Marshal.”

  “I guess you aren’t so bad, even if you were one of the federal agents assigned to sabotage my career.”

  “I told you it wasn’t personal.”

  “I know.” He shrugged into his jacket. “You also said you would get it done quickly, and you did. So far, you haven’t promised anything that you didn’t deliver, so I’m assuming that means you think things through before reaching your conclusions and theories. It won’t hurt to check into the possibility that our shooter can be spotted on the courthouse footage.” He lowered his voice. “However, if that’s the case, maybe you could leave it out of the report or toss in a good word about my assistance.”

  “This won’t bite you in the ass,” I assured. “You’re clear of any involvement or negligence. This won’t blow back on you. That’s just the pessimism talking.”

  He scrunched his brows together. “With this job, pessimism is second only to breathing.”

  As we made our way across the street, I scanned the area. Tall buildings flanked us from all sides, and traffic was ridiculous. At least the realtor hadn’t been lying about everything. Dobson led us up the steps, and I stopped at the top to check for possible vantage points. Whoever did it wanted to contain the scene. Killing someone inside a courtroom wouldn’t lead to mass hysteria since it would take time for word to travel, units to scramble, and the shooter’s position to be compromised. Great, the technical aspects were easily resolved, as was the where, if only we could determine who and why.

  Dobson led us through security, making small talk with the guards at the checkpoint while we flashed our credentials to bypass the line of waiting visitors. From there, he took me down the steps. I studied the windows and the view of outside. It would have been difficult to make a clear shot, and if our killer wasn’t a professional, as the collateral damage indicated, then he’d have to wait for the actual court proceedings since the courtroom windows provided a much better angle to open fire.

  “How would he know which case William Briscoe was assigned?” I asked.

  “That’s confidential. We could have an internal leak,” Dobson cringed at the thought, “or the killer came inside and hung out for the proceedings. It’s like a lottery. He might have noted which panel the vic was assigned to, and then called the automated hotline to see when they were required to report for duty.”

  “But he wouldn’t have known which courtroom the panel was assigned until the case began.”

  “You’re forgetting voir dire,” Dobson chided. “The prosecutor and defense counsel would be present to question the jurors. It’s possible he heard the attorneys’ names, checked the cases, and found out when they were serving on the docket. Sure, there is attorney-client privilege, but the prosecutor’s office has their own list because each AUSA tries so many cases there would be overlap and scheduling conflicts. Have you checked their office for a breach?”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged, unsure if Lucca had looked into it.

  “It’s something to consider.” He led the way up a back staircas
e toward his office. “Do you wanna look at some footage?”

  “Is there a possibility I can see a copy of the schedule for that week first?”

  “Do you have a court order?” He chuckled at his own joke. “For the sake of my sanity, didn’t your people already collect this stuff?”

  “Yeah, but we had an information overload. It was analyzed, cross-referenced, and perhaps dismissed.” Pulling out my phone, I shot a text to the tech department to have them scan the footage that I planned to review with Marshal Dobson. They had computers, and depending on how bogged down they were, they might get a hit faster than I would. Also, I hated staring at security cam footage. “If this pans out, will you have to modify your courthouse security plans?”

  “I’d probably recommend that they ID everyone that enters before allowing them access to the jury pool waiting area. Unfortunately, that would slow things down at the door, unless we were given funds to hire additional marshals or police personnel, so who knows if they would even hear a word I said. You know how funding works.”

  “Luckily, I don’t have to think about it. I’m not much of an administrator.”

  I waited patiently while he went in search of the video footage that I wanted to review. At least he seemed more amenable to working with me today than he had the first time we met; although, I suspected it had a lot to do with his currently benched status and the boredom that went along with it. On the bright side, he was cleared of any malfeasance.

  When he returned, he logged onto his computer, pressed a few keys, and searched for the relevant dates and times that corresponded to the properly numbered security cam. Once the video began to play, he offered his chair. Fast-forwarding through the footage, I waited for people to be called, hoping to find Briscoe. Thirty minutes later, he was assigned to a panel. Continuing to speed up the footage, I watched for suspicious activity within the room. Two dozen people weren’t assigned to jury duty and were free to go. Only one member of the unassigned mass stood out. He was a white male with a baseball cap, glasses, and a windbreaker, and unlike the rest of those relieved to be dismissed from having to perform their civic duties, he lingered, stepping into the men’s room with two or three other people.

  Five minutes later, when everyone else had vacated, he stepped out of the men’s room still wearing the baseball cap and glasses. As he headed up the steps, he brushed into a few men in nice suits, apologizing and patting their jackets. Then he went on his way.

  “Son of a bitch,” I hissed. Recording the timestamp, I dialed Lucca. “Check the basement courthouse footage at,” I read off the time and date, “because I’ve found our guy.”

  “Where the hell are you?” Lucca asked. “We tracked the rifle to a possible sale made from a hunting shop that specializes in long-range weapons. The owner thinks he remembers the guy. He has copies of driver’s licenses from the sales, so we’re skimming through them now. We should know his name within the hour.”

  “Great, but check the footage when you get a chance to make sure it’s the same guy,” I suggested. “Guns are stolen and resold all the time.”

  “I must have missed the memo saying you’re in charge.” He disconnected, and I sighed dramatically.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Dobson asked, and I shrugged. “It might help if you didn’t tell your partner what to do. You’re supposed to be on a level playing field, unless you’re senior, but I don’t see how that’s possible, unless you started working for the Bureau when you were five.”

  “He’s not my partner.” The bitter tone hung from every word.

  “Not to overstep, but a friendly word of advice, you’ll have to accept his role at some point. The sooner you do, the easier it’ll be.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I called in a favor and read your file.” He didn’t appear particularly apologetic. “You’re not the only psychic around here, and since you were the agent assigned to investigate me, I thought I’d return the favor.” He glanced around his tiny office. “Is there anything else I can do for you? I have a few more days off, and they shouldn’t be spent here.”

  Taking that as my cue to leave, I collected my notes, checked the time, and decided that since I was in the neighborhood, I’d pay Jack Fletcher a visit since he hadn’t bothered to return my call.

  Eleven

  “Is Mr. Fletcher available?” I asked, smiling warmly at the receptionist.

  “Mr. Fletcher is in a meeting. Do you have an appointment?” She took her eyes off the computer screen for a split second to make sure I wasn’t one of their more affluent clients, decided that I was nobody important, and returned to performing her tasks.

  “Just tell him Alex Parker is here to see him.” I glanced at the mostly empty couches and chairs in the waiting area. “I’d be happy to wait.”

  Her eyes shot up with something akin to annoyance. “Ms. Parker, you’ll have to make an appointment. Mr. Fletcher is very busy today. If this is some type of emergency, I might be able to convince one of the other associates to assess your case.”

  Adding a bit more saccharine to my smile, I placed my shield and ID on her desk. “It’s Agent Parker, and I’m sure he can spare a moment or two in between meetings. Why don’t you save us both some time and ask him?”

  “Fine.” She glared in my direction, probably wanting to inquire as to whether or not I had a warrant or subpoena but thought better of voicing her protests. “It might be a while.”

  “Not a problem. I haven’t read this month’s issue of Gentlemen’s Quarterly yet.”

  She rolled her eyes, somehow failing to find my remark entertaining, and clicked a few keys on her computer. I stepped away from her desk and took a seat in one of the chairs. Scanning the selection of magazines on the table, the titles alone were boring, so I pulled out my notepad and started scribbling random thoughts pertaining to the courthouse shooting. Just as I finished writing out what I knew of Briscoe’s daily routine, someone cleared his throat.

  “What are you doing here?” Fletcher asked, and from the looks of him, I knew things had escalated in the last day and a half. “I said I’d call.”

  “May we speak in your office?” I asked.

  “That would be a good idea.” He led the way down the corridor and gestured to the leather chair. “Take a seat.” He closed the door and went behind his desk. “Have you identified the party responsible?”

  “I don’t have enough to work with.” I watched the way he dropped into the chair, sore and stiff. “What happened since the last time I saw you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Considering the fact you lie for a living, you should be better at it.”

  “I’m a lawyer. We don’t lie. We manipulate the facts until they fit our needs.” He chuckled, aware of my disdain for his profession. “Would you believe I fell down the stairs?”

  “No.”

  “I went to visit the locker where I’m supposed to leave the money. I thought there might be some clue as to who was behind this, but I didn’t find anything. I spoke to the gym owner and said I was an attorney. He wasn’t impressed. He cursed and threw me outside. A few of the fighters must have heard the argument and decided to demonstrate their skills. When you called last night, I was in the ER.”

  “Did you report the assault?”

  “No. It wasn’t that severe.”

  “You’re being stupid, Jack. Failing to report these crimes makes you look guilty. Not legally. But like you have a guilty conscience and feel you deserve to have these things happen to you. Not to mention, it’s fucking stupid to perform your own recon. You hired me to investigate. So what were you thinking?”

  “I got myself into this mess. I should at least try to get myself out,” he admitted. “I know how dumb that sounds. I spoke with counsel earlier today, and more than likely, my involvement in illegal betting would result in nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Obviously, it depends on how the bar wants to interpret it, but I have no previous violations. There�
�s no reason to think it’d have a lasting impact on my ability to practice law.” The way he said those words made me think he didn’t actually believe them.

  “Then why aren’t you filing a police report?”

  “Because the legal community is tightly knit. You’re in the club, breaking into the club, or blackballed, and since one of the partners brought me in, he’d just as easily kick me out. I like this job and this city. I don’t want to be forced to uproot because I didn’t have the stones to persevere.”

  “You make this sound like a hazing ritual.”

  “In a way, it is.”

  Considering his words, I wondered how possible it was that someone with power and prestige might be using this to challenge Fletcher’s position or loyalty. “Were any of the firm’s clients present at the fights?”

  “The more important ones have been invited, but I didn’t recognize anyone at the events I attended.” He thought back. “It’s not like there is some secret knock or handshake to gain admittance. I’m sure the fight schedule is posted somewhere so people can just show up out of the blue, even though I was initially told it was one of the firm’s best-kept secrets.”

  “I plan to find out.” Flipping to a clean page on my notepad, I slid the paper in front of him. “Give me a list of venues you’ve visited with dates and times, if you remember. I’ll perform my own recon, and with any luck, I won’t have to temporarily disable any prize fighters while I’m doing it.”

  After leaving the law offices of Ackerman, Baze, and Clancy, I detoured to the federal building. Even though I swore not to show up, I wanted to see if we knew the shooter’s identity. The driver’s license contained an outdated photo and incorrect address, but we had a name. Slater Christianson. It was the second time his name surfaced during the course of our investigation. He might be our guy. Lucca had phoned for an arrest warrant and was leading a team to Christianson’s new address. Since we already had the murder weapon, I wondered how long it would take to place Christianson at the scene of the crime.