The Last Rainmaker

by Scott Blade

  He figured four years of university, another five to ten on the job, so she must’ve been thirty-three to thirty-five.

  Gregor noticed Widow staring at her a little too long and shot him a glare.

  Widow looked away.

  Maybe they were a thing, he thought. Maybe not. Maybe theirs was just a typical partnership, close to each other.

  Gregor was a big guy with plenty of battle-worn features. Widow figured he might’ve spent his off hours in the ring instead of lifting weights in a gym. The guy had a jaw of iron. No question. Looked like if someone threw him an uppercut, his jaw would absorb it and return to the guy with a hearty laugh.

  They walked down corridors and up a short flight of stairs and stopped at an elevator. They took it up two floors, only Rosencrantz and Guildenstern couldn’t follow. The lift wasn’t wide enough for all of them to fit. Tiller ordered them to wait in the station’s lobby. Which was fine by Widow.

  They got off on a floor without an elevator ding and followed Cassidy down another hall, all of it covered in a dreary, gray carpet, to a big corner office. It was shared between four agents, at least.

  Two other inspectors sat at desks facing the far wall. The office had a huge set of windows, overlooking the east part of Cork. The view consisted of a fork in a brown river, a pair of bridges, and a major roadway that was not quite a freeway like the thousands that Widow was used to traversing.

  Cassidy sat in a swivel chair at a neat desk, pressed up in the corner against a window.

  She spun around and pulled an extra chair up to the desk.

  She said, “Sit down.”

  She was speaking to Widow.

  “Me?”

  He looked at Tiller.

  “You’re the investigator.”

  Widow shrugged and dumped himself down on the seat. It sank under his weight. The wheels were hard to maneuver over the carpet.

  He managed and pulled up close to her.

  She keyed the keyboard on a laptop and it came to life. She took another thirty seconds clicking through notifications and opening her email browser and thumbing through it for an email she had copied to someone else. Maybe Gregor.

  She found it, pulled it up and clicked on a file.

  “Her. Take a look. You’re not gonna learn much.”

  She scooted back a bit and gave Widow room. He grabbed the lip of the desktop and pulled himself forward. The wheels struggled over the carpet.

  Tiller saw one of the other inspectors get up and leave his desk. He walked over, took the chair and pulled it up behind Widow so that he could see the laptop screen.

  He didn’t ask permission. Cassidy didn’t say anything.

  Tiller said, “Go on.”

  Widow tracked his fingers on the trackpad and clicked the play button in the video player.

  The video started out with Lenny, in front of the camera. He had just set it up and clicked the record button.

  He wore a hunter green camo Castro hat and camo pants to match, and a black t-shirt, under a dark canvas jacket. A pair of sunglasses sat on his face, covering his eyes in a black tint.

  He looked into the lens. Then he stepped around the camera, out of video. Widow heard sounds of clicking and brushing like his jacket scraped the mic.

  The camera’s angle twisted and moved and faced a plot of grass, smashed from having something laid out on it before.

  Lenny came back around the front of the camera. He took off his sunglasses, folded them and put them into a case.

  He knelt on one knee and stared into the camera. Widow saw blue hazel eyes. There was a lot of pain in them, like a man who had lost himself. There was a hint of alcoholism there too.

  Widow had seen it before. Bags under the eyes, stress and pain and a battle to hold back tears, all present, all at once.

  Lenny started to speak to the camera.

  His voice was gruff and worn and strained like someone who had been recovering from years of smoking hard.

  He gave a date, a time, and said his name and last-held rank. He said he had been a corporal of horse in the cavalry. He had been an elite sniper. He mentioned his kill record. He mentioned how he had held it for ten years until it was wiped out by some “bloody moose-lover.”

  He claimed that the new record had been a fluke, a joke, an insult. He explained that it had beaten his because it had been fired from a high elevation. He talked about how because it was from a mountaintop, fired over a hill, plus the curvature of the Earth’s surface, all made it an impossible shot. It was so impossible that it had to be a one out of a million, maybe more, maybe one out of a hundred million. He argued that, therefore, it was only made out of sheer, blind luck.

  Widow looked over at Cassidy.

  “How long does he go on like this?”

  “I don’t know. Five more minutes maybe.”

  “Let’s fast-forward.”

  Cassidy nodded and reached forward. Widow had to sit all the way back in his seat for her to reach across him. He felt her jacket scrape across his forearm.

  She clicked the fast-forward icon and had to stay outstretched across him in order to stop the video.

  Widow watched the screen. He saw Lenny reverse his hat, leave the camera, return with a rolled-up sniper’s mat. He watched Lenny flap it out and lay it down flat. He placed the sunglass case on the edge of the mat. Next he came out with a box of ammunition, opened one end and set it down on the mat. Then Lenny went out of frame again then he returned with a rifle, a L115A3 Sniper Rifle, the same rifle from the photographs in the slide back at Andrews.

  Lenny set the rifle up on its bipod and got down on the mat. He took cap covers off the scope and got into a prone position.

  Several long minutes later, he had set up the sights on the scope. He got up off the ground, several times. Moving off frame.

  Tiller asked, “What the hell is he doing?”

  “Setting up his shot,” Cassidy said.

  “Why’s he leaving the frame?”

  Widow said, “He’s using a spotter scope. It’s behind him.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Snipers are like weathermen, only more accurate. They record everything. Every piece of data. And they love numbers. He’s adding up winds and distance and geometry of the range. He’s setting his scope up accordingly.”

  “Can he do that without an actual spotter to help him?”

  Widow didn’t look at Tiller.

  He said, “He’s doing it.”

  Finally, Lenny got down prone. This time Widow noticed he had brand-new boots.

  “When’s he gonna shoot?” Tiller asked.

  “This time.”

  Widow saw Lenny turn his feet in, arches flat in the dirt.

  Lenny looked through the scope, slowed his breathing, his heart rate. Widow looked at the clock on the lower part of Cassidy’s laptop screen. He counted the seconds.

  Lenny squeezed the trigger.

  The gunshot CRACKED! It was so loud the mic rattled and they heard basically nothing but crashing static. Then they heard it echo across the landscape and die down to nothing.

  Lenny moved his head away from the scope, some irritation in his body language. He seemed to curse to himself.

  He’d missed his target.

  Then he reacted to something he saw. He stared back through the scope at something. He took his head away again and looked over the rifle to something in the distance. He moved his finger away from the trigger. And looked back through the scope.

  That’s when it happened.

  Widow watched.

  Tiller gasped.

  Cassidy did nothing.

  Lenny’s head exploded.

  CHAPTER 19

  AFTER LENNY’S HEAD and glass from the scope, eyeball side, exploded, they watched a red mist mushroom around the mess and then the head fell back against the scope and the mist settled to dust and nothingness.

  Tiller was covering his mouth.

  Cassidy reached forward to tu
rn off the video.

  “Wait,” Widow said.

  She stopped, said, “There’s not much else.”

  “We don’t see the killer?”

  “Here. Watch.”

  She let the video play.

  It played for a long time. Widow saw a dark figure come into frame. It was someone short, a little below average, but taller than Cassidy.

  All he saw was below the shoulders. The killer was dressed in all black. Black canvas pants, shirt, and jacket, a black strap on his shoulder.

  He watched the killer stop, standing beyond the bloody remains of Lenny. Then the killer stepped over the body, a bit of a struggle. And stepped close to the camera lens. Then the video went to black.

  “He covered the lens,” Tiller said.

  Widow looked at the video time. It was an hour longer.

  He asked, “There’s nothing after this?”

  “No. Just a black screen.”

  Widow asked, “What about the other camera?”

  Cassidy smiled at him.

  “Other camera?”

  “The other camera.”

  “How did you know?”

  “He’s trying to prove that he broke the new record here. He’s not going to just have one camera pointed at him shooting and not another one synced to the target.”

  Cassidy smiled and clicked and tracked on the trackpad until she pulled up another file in the same copied email.

  A new video played on the screen.

  Widow watched.

  This one was pointed at a watermelon staked on a pool.

  Widow said, “Fast-forward this one.”

  Cassidy fast-forwarded it until Widow said stop. He had watched the timestamp on the top of the screen, waited for it to match the part where Lenny was killed.

  They heard Lenny’s shot. The crack. The echo.

  Widow counted the seconds from Lenny’s shot to the shot of the killer’s bullet. They heard one after the other. The camera angle wasn’t set up to see the sniper’s shot.

  Cassidy leaned in close again.

  Tiller said, “That’s where he died.”

  Cassidy said, “We’ll get a quick glimpse of the sniper walking by, but still there’s no face.”

  “Why did you keep this video from us?” Tiller asked.

  “I didn’t keep anything from you.”

  Widow said to Tiller, “Quiet.”

  Tiller gave him a look like he was being disobedient, which he was. Technically. But he’d never agreed to treat Tiller as a superior officer.

  Just then, they all saw the killer walk back to the camera, in a fast stride. Not running, but walking quickly.

  Widow asked, “Can we back up?”

  Cassidy said, “You can do it yourself.”

  “It’s your computer. I didn’t want to touch it.”

  She reached over and rewound the video for him.

  “Pause it. There.”

  She paused it.

  “Can you back up a couple of frames? Till he’s in view.”

  She backed up the video until the killer was in as good a view as he was going to be in. It was still blurry.

  This time, Widow saw the same figure from before. No head visible. Just everything below the shoulder. He studied the image. All black clothing. Jacket. Pants. He assumed boots, but they were off-frame in this angle. Maybe the guy wore a hat. He guessed with the sun that high, maybe.

  Widow looked hard for a long minute.

  Everyone stayed quiet.

  He looked at the torso, medium build, but probably lean underneath the clothing.

  He looked at the waist. Generic black belt. Generic belt buckle. Nothing stuck out.

  Then he looked at the guy’s hands. Gloved. Black. Empty.

  “Can you fast-forward to when he walks back to where he shot from?”

  She said, “He never returns. Why would he?”

  Twenty seconds later, he leaned forward.

  “You see something?” Cassidy asked.

  “I do.”

  “What?

  He leaned back in his seat and turned to her, looked at her.

  “Tell me about the bullet.”

  “We dug it out of the dirt. The killer took the brass.”

  Widow nodded. He expected that.

  Cassidy said, “It’s a C round.”

  “I’m sure you made a list of all the rifles to fit that caliber?”

  “Yes.”

  Widow moved his chair back. The wheels struggled against the carpet. He looked at her.

  “Who sold the weapon?”

  Cassidy looked past Widow at Gregor. The military experience showed. He was the one with knowledge of firearms.

  He came around and said, “We don’t know who sold it. Lots of rifles can fire six-point-fives. Nothing particularly special about it.”

  “Who around here has the power to smuggle a specialty weapon in?”

  Gregor said, “There’s hundreds of illegal weapons smugglers here. This is Ireland.”

  “But who would be able to get an illegal weapon? Something very rare?”

  Tiller said, “He said there’s nothing special about this bullet.”

  Cassidy said, “It could’ve been a legally bought weapon. You can get rifles here.”

  Gregory said, “With a permit.”

  Cassidy said, “Lenny lived out there in the country.”

  She pointed north, but Widow was certain that Lenny died to the west. In her office, west was the wall. So she pointed north, out that side of the window.

  Widow followed her and looked north. Probably a lot of backcountry there too.

  Widow said, “Got any of these bullets lying around?”

  “We got most of the one from Lenny’s skull.”

  He shook his head.

  “You must’ve bought a box of them. For comparison?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I see them?”

  Cassidy looked back at Gregory and nodded.

  He said, “I gotta get them. They’re in the crime lab. I’ll run and fetch them.”

  “No. I’ll come with you. See them for myself.”

  Gregory looked at Cassidy for permission.

  “No problem. We’ll all go.”

  “Bring the laptop,” Widow said.

  Cassidy closed the computer and scooped it up. She tucked it under her arm, unintentionally pulling up the break line of the jacket. Widow got a fast glimpse at her service weapon. It had been her unintentional move to show it and his instinctual move to look for it.

  It was a Walther P99C, a small nine-millimeter handgun for small hands or just for someone who wants easy concealment. Or both. It was compact, with all the standard configurations of the factory design. All the things you need in a concealed weapon and none of the things you don’t.

  The weapon was in a shoulder rig, light and well-tailored for her torso. The thing he noted above all else was that she was a left-handed draw.

  Widow also saw her badge, folded in a black wallet. One side of it was folded behind her belt, the side with the badge was exposed, facing out.

  The badge was folded, with four star points and four circles. It had writing on it, all in Gaelic. And he couldn’t read any of it. But he imagined it matched the sign in the lobby near the elevator that indicated she worked in the Special Detective Unit.

  Cassidy walked to the door, behind Gregor and Tiller. She stopped, turned and looked at Widow.

  “You coming?”

  He stood up and followed behind. He took slow strides. He wanted to fall back and walk with her, a little out of earshot.

  “So do I call you investigator or detective?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He shrugged.

  “To some people.”

  “Just call me Cassidy.”

  “What’s your official title?”

  “You couldn’t read it on my badge?”

  She had to crane her neck to look up at him.

  She said
, “What? I saw you look.”

  “I don’t read Gaelic.”

  “It’s Detective Cassidy.”

  “Is it Mrs. Detective Cassidy?”

  “Just Detective.”

  They caught up to Tiller and Gregor, who held the elevator door open with one arm extended.

  They got on and rode down, one floor, and got off.

  The floor opened to one huge crime lab. The words Forensic Labs were scrolled on glass, separating numerous cubicles and lab techs and lab equipment, none of which Widow knew the names of, combined with office machines, all of which he knew the names of. The Navy loved paperwork and the NCIS was even worse. He was grateful to have been in the field and not behind a desk for most of his Naval and investigation career.

  There was no physical security in the lab. No armed guards. No standard desk sergeant, signing in visitors. Which made him realize that he had not been given a visitor pass or identifying badge to begin with.

  Maybe Cassidy just had that kind of pull. Maybe, she was the woman in charge of her unit, like Rachel Cameron had been in charge of the unit he worked in once.

  “This way,” Gregor said. He led them around more glass windows and glass dividers and one long hallway. No glass there.

  They ended up in a windowless room that looked more like a student study room in a university library over a lab.

  At the center was a good-sized round table, surrounded by chairs. At the center of the table was the same symbol he saw on Cassidy’s badge. Same four pointed stars. Same four circles. Same Gaelic.

  He stared at the table and suddenly thought of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. He wondered if any of them had been Irish.

  “Take a seat.”

  Widow sat first, with his back to the only closed-off wall.

  Tiller next and then Cassidy. She reopened her laptop.

  Gregor left the room through a different door than they’d entered. He was gone a good five minutes. He returned with a box of ammunition and a rifle under one arm. The stock was wood. The scope was enormous.

  He set the box of ammunition on the table and slid it over, hand clamped down on top, to Widow.

  “That’s the six-point-five.”

  Widow looked at the box. It was red with an illustration of a whitetail deer on it. Packaging designed to call out to hunters, to say “This will get the job done.”