Penance jl-1

by Dan O'Shea

  CHAPTER 37 — CHICAGO

  Bernstein waved Lynch over as soon as he got into the office the next morning.

  “The prints from your pop can? Got a hit.”

  “About time we caught something. Who?”

  “You’re going to love this one. Ferguson, James R., USMC.”

  “A Marine?”

  “Yep. All sorts of shit you’re gonna like. Enlisted in 1968. Couple of tours with a long-range recon unit — and they are, from my research, gentlemen of some account. Nominated for the Silver Star twice and the DSC once. Got the second Star. Four Purple Hearts, and not those John Kerry band-aid jobs, either. Took a round through his right lung. Another one through his left leg. USMC long-distance shooting champ in ’70, again in ’72. Graduated from the scout/sniper program in ’72, then his records get a little fuzzy — gotta figure he got lent out to one of those special operations groups you hear about.”

  “Son of a bitch. Home fucking run. We got a photo?”

  Bernstein handed Lynch a formal USMC portrait from 1973. Better than thirty years old, but it was the guy.

  “That’s our boy. Anything more recent?”

  “Not likely. Nothing after ’73. Records have him as KIA. They planted him at Arlington.”

  Lynch just stood for a second, looking at Bernstein, then rubbed his face. “So how do prints from some guy who’s been dead since the Nixon administration end up on a pop can in yesterday’s trash? I watched this guy drop the can in the garbage. I watched our guy take the prints.”

  “An interesting question.”

  “So somebody screwed up. Run em again.”

  “Already did. Got the same record, and the prints are way past a legal match — every loop, every whorl.”

  “Some kind of computer screw up?”

  “These didn’t start out digital. What I’ve got is a digital copy of his paper record. The prints are on the same piece of paper as his photo, and you’re telling me the photo looks like the guy. Computer could pull up the wrong record, but it couldn’t mismatch the photo and prints — they’re all part of the same image. If the records were more modern — prints and photos residing as separate pieces of data — then, sure, it’d be possible to screw up the search, get the data mismatched. But this? I don’t see how.”

  “Maybe a vampire?”

  “Maybe he’s Hindu.”

  “What?”

  “Reincarnation.”

  “Thought they came back as cows or something.”

  “Varying levels of incarnation reflecting their growing enlightenment until they achieve Nirvana.”

  “That Cobain guy achieved Nirvana. Look where it got him.”

  “Nirvana the state of being, not Nirvana the band.”

  “So God’s not a grunge rocker. This is seriously fucked. We got a possible perp matches up every way we need him to, and we got some computer in Washington telling us he’s been dead for better than thirty years. Is it just this system says he’s dead? You check anything else?”

  “In 1974, armed forces insurance paid off the only living relative, a spinster aunt, Ellen Grinde, who kicked off in 1980. Arlington checks out. They’ve got a James R. Ferguson buried in the fall of 1973. Ran a credit check using all his info — nothing. The James R Ferguson with these prints hasn’t filed a tax return, used a credit card, applied for a loan, engaged in any reportable financial transaction of any kind since July, 1973. This guy hasn’t popped up anywhere he shouldn’t have until yesterday.”

  “Cunningham put me on to the guy. Said he turned up at Fort Campbell just when Bush the First was taking his swing at Saddam. Said he thought he was CIA.”

  “So we got some operative out of a Tom Clancy novel, and the CIA fakes his death so it can send him around shooting old ladies and Democratic party hacks from outrageous distances?”

  “You got a better explanation?”

  Bernstein smiled. “You ever hear of Occam’s Razor?”

  “That a Gillette product?”

  “Philosophical principal. States that, all else being equal, the simplest explanation for any given set of facts likely is the right explanation.”

  “And?”

  “The Tom Clancy scenario? So far as I can see, that’s it.” Bernstein pulled a couple of pages out of the pile on his desk and handed them to Lynch. “Something else we ought to think about, too. We got two people in a row shot coming out of church now. The press thinks it’s a serial killer ritual thing — this Confessional Killing shit — not some kind of payback for Marslovak. Maybe they’re right.”

  “Thinking the same thing,” said Lynch. “You run a search?”

  “Had a shooting little over a week ago in Wisconsin. Guy coming out of confession. Also, you see the news last night, big shootout downstate?”

  “Thought that was some drug deal.”

  “Maybe, but we don’t get that many people shot with rifles from long distances, and a couple of those guys were, so I Googled around on that a bit.” Bernstein handed Lynch a map. “Got your Wisconsin shooting here, north shore of Door County, just about two hundred thirty miles north of the Marslovak shooting. Thing is, it is due north, I mean exactly. Now, you got this mess downstate, town called Moriah, a bit southeast of Effingham. Damn near exactly two hundred thirty miles south.”

  “Due south?”

  “Off by a mile or so. But there’s a Catholic church near the downstate thing, and it is due south. Exactly.”

  “Guess I better make some calls,” said Lynch.

  Lynch called the sheriffs in Wisconsin and downstate. Door County sheriff was sticking to his story — he had a case on a jilted husband, and he didn’t want to screw with it. Said he’d take a look at the church for the bugs, though.

  Guy from downstate, Buttita, he wanted to talk.

  “We get out there,” Buttita said, “and we got the station guy dead — three 9mm center chest through the window. We got the cop and a housewife in the parking lot. Housewife’s on the ground next to her minivan, two year-old kid in the back seat bawling her eyes out. Housewife’s got a.25 through the forehead. Cop’s got a 9mm in the head and is burned to a crisp. Somebody’d put a couple of.50s into the squad car. Got some.25 holes and 9mm holes in the squad. That’s got to be at least two, maybe three people — two different hand guns and a big-ass rifle. So we’re working that scene for a while when I notice we’re getting a lot of crows up on top the ridge east of the station. We get up there, this is maybe 200 yards out, we got two more stiffs, dressed in cammies, both got nines in shoulder holsters, both got M16s next to them, none of their weapons are fired. One’s got a hole through his chest and a hole through the head, the other’s got a hole through the throat — all 7.62mm rounds, rifle rounds. So now I’ve got two different hand guns and two rifles. Another little ways up that hill, we got a third guy missing the back of his head.”

  “Let me play psychic here and guess that you can’t get any ballistics on the 7.62s,” Lynch said.

  A long pause on the phone. “We haven’t let that out.”

  “Got a couple of shootings up here, same thing.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Not so far.”

  “The cammie guys? They got IDs on them, so we run that, find out they stayed in the Days Inn over in Effingham. Got a duffle in one room, got traces of meth in it, also a mess of cash. Ran these guys through the system, they all got a history in the meth trade. We were thinking a drug thing some way or another, but still damn weird. Dead guys up on the hill, dead people in the parking lot. Got a blood trail off the cliff on the west end. Just a clusterfuck.”

  “Let me make it weirder for you. You got a church near there, Holy Angels?”

  “Not far away, yeah.”

  “I’m gonna fax you a picture of some electronics. You may want to take a look over there and see if you can find anything like them in or near the confessionals.”

  An hour later, Buttita called back. “OK, Lynch,” he said. “It’s officially weirder.
”

  It was dark when Lynch left the station. When he was halfway to his car, Cunningham stepped out of the shadows and into the blind spot created by Lynch’s eyepatch.

  “Let’s take a walk. You and me gotta talk.”

  Lynch turned. “Reason you couldn’t call me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You gonna keep being real mysterious like this?”

  “Till we get up on the street, in with some people and background noise where I’m pretty sure nobody can keep a parabolic on us and get anything, yeah.”

  “Being a little paranoid, aren’t you?”

  “Bet your sweet ass,” Cunningham said.

  Lynch and Cunningham walked up onto a main drag, mixed in with the evening pedestrian traffic.

  “OK, Cunningham, what’s up?”

  “That casing. I did see something, but I had to check a few things before I talked with you. Especially on top of seeing that guy on the street.”

  “So what do you have?”

  “Ghost story,” Cunningham said. “Or maybe a spook story.” He told Fisher about the Dragon.

  When Cunningham was done, Lynch stopped, turned and eyeballed him for a minute. “You wanna explain why it is you have to talk to your old Corps friends before you talk to me?”

  Cunningham held Lynch’s eyes, didn’t look away, didn’t blink. “I get to where I think I gotta explain myself to you, I’ll let you know.”

  The two men stood like that a minute, then Lynch turned and started back up the street.

  “That guy you saw at the Riordan scene? Was that this Dragon guy?”

  “Don’t know. Heard about the Dragon, never saw him. But I got passed around a little today through the Corps grapevine. Guy I finally talked with — and I’m not giving you any names here, so don’t ask — he’s a little freaked. Some weird shit happening in DC. Lot of churn all of a sudden over on the spook side of the street, chain of command getting juggled, and suddenly there’s a big market for shooters. Somebody needs triggermen ASAP. Don’t know who, don’t know why. Also, that shit downstate? Word is that was our boy. Guy I talked to says Fisher — can’t remember his first name, some kind of weird biblical thing he thinks, but he’s pretty sure on Fisher.”

  “We got a hit on the prints from the Riordan scene,” Lynch said. “That guy you saw, his name’s Ferguson. He’s ex-Corps, too. Thing is, system says he was KIA in 1973.”

  “Heard they do that sometimes — clear the history on somebody.”

  “So maybe somebody wiped this Ferguson’s record, changed his name to Fisher?”

  Cunningham walked for a minute, thinking, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. Timeline seems off. This Ferguson, he goes back in Nam a-ways. The Dragon, he would have still been a little green then. And if the shooter’s Fisher, I don’t picture him hanging around after he takes his shot waiting for us to eyeball him.”

  “You telling me we got two Agency sniper types running around?”

  Cunningham nodded. “Two yeah, but not Agency. Whatever’s going on is totally black. This isn’t going to trace back to anybody with a government business card. I think maybe this Fisher’s slipped his leash. An old lady? Some half-ass city pol? Not the type of targets you waste that kind of talent on. And both of em you could have taken out without the sniper shit. That kind of thing attracts attention. Sniping is always plan B. You got another option, you use it.”

  “So you think Ferguson’s here for Fisher?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which leaves one question.”

  “What?”

  CHAPTER 38 — CHICAGO

  Lynch drove back to his place, whipped, just wanting to sleep. When he stepped through the door, Ferguson was sitting in the leather chair across the room holding a slim automatic with a sizable suppressor.

  “Little gun,” said Lynch.

  “Hush puppy,” said Ferguson. “I could shoot you from here and you’d barely hear it. Just a.22, but there are ten in the clip, and I can put all of them inside a quarter from this distance.”

  “Good thing I’m not carrying any change,” said Lynch.

  Ferguson smiled. “Couple things. First, take off your jacket, take the nine out from under your arm, left hand, carefully. Take out the clip, rack the slide, and set everything on the table by the door. Don’t worry, I wanted you dead, you’d be there. I just don’t want your mind cluttered up with any how-do-I-get-my-gun-out thoughts while we’re chatting.”

  Lynch took out his gun, emptied it, set it down.

  “You don’t carry some cheap-ass little throw-down in an ankle holster or anything, do you? You say no and I see one when you cross your legs, I’m gonna take exception.”

  Fisher hiked up his pants legs and flashed the argyles at Ferguson.

  “Nice socks,” said Ferguson.

  “Trying to up my sartorial game,” said Lynch.

  “Christ, you start dating a writer and look at the shit comes out your mouth.”

  Lynch tried not to show anything.

  “Yeah, I know about the reporter,” said Ferguson.

  “Know a few things myself, Ferguson.” Lynch throwing the name out, looking for a little edge. “Like how you died back in ’73.”

  Ferguson let out a little snort. “That or how?”

  “Both. Friendly fire. Nice touch.”

  “OK, we all through impressing each other, or we gotta get our dicks out?”

  “Hey,” said Lynch, “it’s your meeting.”

  Ferguson twitched the gun toward the couch on the far wall. “Why don’t you go on over have a seat, get comfy, so I can set this thing down. Really don’t need to keep it on you the whole time, do I?”

  “Sure,” said Lynch. “Nice and friendly, except for the whole B amp;E part. But what’s a felony among friends, right?”

  “I knew you’d be a reasonable guy. OK, we — we being you and us — have been butting heads over a little matter, and that’s not productive. Some guys I work with — it’s not just me, and you know that — were maybe a little hard-assed about this whole thing. But, gets down to it, we’re on the same side. You’ve got a shooter you’d like off the streets. We’d like him off the streets, too.”

  “This we, do I get an antecedent to go with the pronoun?”

  “Let’s just say elements of the national security apparatus, shall we?” Ferguson pulled a pack of Dunhills from an inside pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Actually, yes,” said Lynch.

  Ferguson shrugged, flicked open a well-used Zippo, and lit up. “Mind if I do anyway?”

  “Since you put it like that,” said Lynch.

  Ferguson took a long pull, blew a stream of smoke up toward the ceiling.

  “How’d you get my name? Cunningham spot me?”

  “Down by the church. We pulled your prints off the Dr Pepper can you dropped.”

  Ferguson nodded. “Fucking prints. They were supposed to swap those out years ago. Let me ask you this. You work out who you’re looking for yet?”

  “Getting close.”

  “You get close to this guy, you’ll get dead.”

  “I’ll give you he’s a scary SOB. Still gonna run him down, though.”

  “And then?”

  “And then it’s his play. We bring him in or we put him down.”

  “And that’s where maybe we can play ball,” said Ferguson.

  “Play ball how?”

  “Let’s just say the put him down part sounds good. The bring him in part? Not so much.”

  “Surely a guy who’d break into a cop’s apartment and hold him at gunpoint isn’t suggesting that we subvert a citizen’s constitutional guarantees? You guys have heard of due process, right?”

  “Got our own version. Look, it’s your town, and you’re good. You’ve gotten way closer to this than I would have guessed, and you’ve gotten there fast. Fact is, if you bring him in, you’re gonna have to put a hole in him first. No way in hell he just gives up. So it’s ninety to ten
the thing goes our way anyhow. I’m just asking you to give up the ten percent so that we can pool our resources and get this thing over with. He’s not going to stop, you know.”

  “Didn’t figure he would,” said Lynch.

  “So how many people you ready to write off just so you can make sure you color inside the lines?”

  “We could save a lot of time by just popping every gangbanger we have on file, too. Or maybe just round em up and stick em on a train and take em out somewhere and gas em. Maybe you’d like to help with that.”

  Ferguson frowned, shook his head. “Great, two minutes into our little chat and you’re already playing the Nazi card. Look, nobody likes this thing, but it got away from us. This guy you’re looking for, he’s a friend of mine, OK? Or I’m as close to a friend as he’s got. I don’t know what his deal is right now, but whatever it is, it means killing a lot of folks who don’t have it coming. He’s our Frankenstein’s monster. We made him. I’m asking for some help taking him off the board before he runs up the body count. And I’m asking that we keep things quiet. He starts telling tales, it’s going to be bad for the whole fucking country. You got no idea how many stiffs have his fingerprints on them. And these are some high-profile stiffs going back a long way. I don’t know how much attention you pay to the news, Lynch, but this ain’t Mr Rogers’ Neighborhood anymore, if it ever was. There’re a couple million yahoos out there who’d like to pop a nuke off here and then piss on the rubble. We have to play a little rough, then we do. If you’re waiting for me to apologize, then pack a lunch.”

  Lynch clapped a couple of times, quietly. Golf gallery clapping.

  “Wow. Nice speech. You got a neocon hymnal you memorize shit out of?”

  Ferguson shrugged. “Got some lines I can riff on. Never know what’s gonna work with somebody.”

  “OK, so your shooter. You’re saying instead of you just giving us what you’ve got, letting us do our job, you want me to make sure we execute the son of a bitch for you?”

  “What am I supposed to do, Lynch? Walk down to the station and introduce myself to your boss? I’m dead, remember? The people I work for aren’t on anybody’s org chart.”