Spree

by Michael Morley

  Shooter had seen it all before.

  Then came a hard cut to the fat LAPD chief in his ridiculous police uniform, plastered with so many badges he looked like a cartoon character. Mr. Medal headed into a press conference alongside a giant of a man. A stiff-backed Neanderthal as broad as one of those brain-dead football players.

  The chief posed for the cameras, then kicked things off. “Alongside me is Special Agent Jake Mottram, the head of the Bureau’s Spree Killer Unit…”

  Shooter stared at Mottram’s face.

  There was a hardness to it. A look that only came when you’d taken the life of someone else. When you had stared death in the face and had come away as the victor.

  It came as no surprise to see pictures flashed up of him in full camouflage uniform, a machine gun looking small in his huge hands. The voice-over said he’d fought in Afghanistan and Yemen, been wounded in battle, had killed an enemy recon unit and still escaped.

  Shooter was amused.

  The guy was described as a war hero, but he was no more than an action figure. A soldier doll. Mr. Grunt to go with Mr. Medal. He was all body and no brain. Shooter had grown up in neighborhoods full of idiots like that. They’d never been any trouble to him.

  “As of now,” continued Mr. Medal, “Agent Mottram will be taking operational control of the Sun Western slayings, and I will be ensuring that he has the full support of the LAPD and all its officers and resources.”

  Now that was interesting.

  The report was turning out to be quite special after all.

  Shooter had expected the FBI to get involved, but not so soon.

  Grunt was talking now but Shooter wasn’t fully listening. They’d called him a spree killer. It wasn’t really a term he liked. It belittled what he did.

  Revolutionary.

  Protester.

  Avenger.

  Artist.

  They were all more accurate than the denigrations used by the press and police.

  The camera angle tightened and Shooter started to pay attention. A slow zoom during a news piece was always a sign that the guy talking had finally become interesting.

  “I have come across many enemies in my time,” said Grunt, “but only the most evil of creatures strikes at civilians in a way as cowardly as this.”

  Evil?

  Cowardly?

  The soldier doll was out of line with that. It was disrespectful. Ignorant. Downright rude.

  “The mind behind these acts is a cowardly, spineless, gutless one. It is housed in a body that has no place in our society. We are speaking of the lowest of the low, the kind of person parents would disown, the kind that society is most ashamed of.”

  Shooter balled his fists and shouted at the screen. “My parents? You dare mention my parents, you motherfucking piece of establishment shit.”

  Jake seemed to answer him back. “You’ll notice that I haven’t used the words ‘human being.’ That’s because the creature responsible for these homicides is not worthy of the words. The worst criminals in prison would consider him too vile to be allowed a cell alongside them.”

  Shooter grabbed the flat-screen and shook it. Banged it against the wall until it fell from his hands. Still Grunt refused to shut up. Still he spouted nonsense. Then there were pictures of him leaving the police HQ and being followed in his car by the press, as if he were some freaking movie star.

  Shooter ripped the monitor off its bracket and crashed it to the floor.

  “Dead or alive,” repeated the up-turned newsreader.

  Those were the last words the TV spoke before it died.

  It seemed prophetic.

  Shooter said them aloud over the busted screen. “Dead—or—alive.”

  He stood in the pooled LED glass and crushed it. Ground it under his heel. Digital dust to digital dust. “I choose ‘dead,’ Mr. Grunt. I choose ‘dead.’ ”

  He swept his foot through the powdered ashes and made a perfect tick.

  34

  SKU Offices, LA

  Jake’s cellphone rang all the way back to the office. He ignored it. The attention was almost as annoying as Danielle Goodman’s permanent grin. If she congratulated him one more time he was going to lose it with her.

  Somehow he kept his temper and made it to his corridor.

  Most of SKU were lined up outside his office and clapped as he rounded the corner.

  Jake wanted to fall through a hole in the floor.

  His embarrassment grew with every step and every shouted comment.

  “Well done, boss.”

  “Way to go, Mr. M.”

  “Let’s get that piece of shit.”

  Ruis Costas shook his hand and followed him in. “Man, that was quite a speech. You sure tore a new hole in that scumbag.”

  “Talk’s cheap—you know that. We need to double our actions now. Cancel all leave. Everyone works this weekend. I don’t give a damn about the overtime; we do what we have to do. All these politicians are going to have to put their money behind all this.”

  Angie was in the doorway. “That might be the first smart thing you’ve said today.”

  Ruis could feel the tension. “I’ll give you guys some time.” He put an imaginary phone to his ear. “Call me when you’re ready, boss.”

  Angie walked in, heard the door close behind her, then let fly. “I don’t know what I’m angrier about. That you kept me in the dark about this insane press conference, or that last night, when you proposed to me, you knew you’d be spouting all that crap today.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. One is work and one is personal.”

  “They’re the same now, Jake. When you pledge the rest of your life to someone, you do it on a basis of complete trust and honesty. You held back on me, you deliberately kept things secret because you knew I’d have objections. That’s not trust, that’s manipulation, and I sure as hell am not going to enter into a marriage of manipulation.”

  He tried to mitigate. “I meant everything I said last night. And I meant everything I said today. There was nothing dishonest in any of my words. I love you, Angie, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you and with our baby. And I hate this creature, this monster, that can kill in the way he does. Believe me, I’d personally put a bullet in his head and sleep soundly, given half a chance.”

  She shook her head in dismay.

  Jake could see fury still building inside her.

  “This is not a war, Jake. Hunting him is not a personal challenge to you. It’s a job. A J-O-B. It’s what you get paid for—not what you should risk your life for.”

  “We all risk our lives; that’s why we carry guns, not flowers.”

  “Don’t be so damned flippant.”

  He headed her way. “Come on, you must be able to see my difficulties here. That was a speech my boss and my unit psych wanted me to make. What was I to say?”

  Her face reddened. “No! That’s what you should have said. NO, NO, NO! The speech was ill thought out. It was tabloid bullshit, designed to grab cheap headlines, to rally the troops and buy politicians time. And I bet that bitch Danielle knows all that, too.”

  Now he was cross. “Cut her some slack—she’s doing her best.”

  “No, she’s not! She’s doing what is politically smart, for her, for Dixon and for the Bureau.”

  “Well, excuse me, but how’s that a bad thing?”

  “Because, you stupid man, you’re being played. They’re making you their scapegoat. It’s your head that will be sacrificed if—or when—all goes pear-shaped, which it undoubtedly will.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Angie took a deep breath. “Jake, he’s not a Spree. You shouldn’t even be…” She bit her tongue.

  “What?” He gave her an accusing look. “What shouldn’t I be?”

  “McDonald asked me if your unit should even be working the case and I said technically, no.”

  “Gee, you rea
lly are a fan of mine.”

  “Grow up. She wanted me to write a detailed report as to why I was convinced the killer was a Serial and file a recommendation that it be taken off you.”

  He backed away from her. “Jesus! And you accuse me of keeping secrets.”

  “This is different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t write the report—though I wish I had. And it isn’t as simple as that. He’s not a Spree and not a Serial. He’s a Hybrid. A new breed that still needs proper defining.”

  “Oh, and Doctor Holmes is just the person to do that, not dumbass Danielle Goodman, I suppose.” Jake’s voice bounced with sarcasm. “And I guess in the future, everyone will remember how you recognized this new category and you’ll be up there with the Robert Resslers, John Douglases and all the other founding fathers of profiling. Right?”

  “Fuck you, Jake.” She made for the door, then stopped. “For your information, before your little show on TV, I told Sandra McDonald I wanted off the case. That was a decision I made to make life easier for you—not me. Now I’m going to write up all my notes tonight, and I’d like to do that on my own at home, without interruption, so it’d be good if you gave me that space and stayed the hell away from me until I’m done.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, Jake. So am I.” She resisted the urge to slam the door and shut it gently behind her.

  35

  The rest of the day dragged.

  Not an hour went by without fragments of the row blowing into Jake’s mind. He’d thought it had been smart to separate work from his personal life.

  It hadn’t.

  He’d felt obliged to comply with Danielle Goodman’s request for him not to discuss the speech with Angie.

  He shouldn’t have.

  Even though Dixon had approved it, he should have told her no and insisted he write his own words. More than anything, he should have put Angie first, just as she had apparently done with him.

  Lessons learned. The hard way.

  At least she hadn’t thrown the ring back at him. There was some comfort in that.

  He had to work late tonight, so maybe an evening apart wasn’t such a bad thing. Besides, he needed some sleep because, pregnant or not, Angie had worn him out and he needed some shut-eye.

  As the night wore on, he called her cell to apologize again, but she didn’t pick up. He left a simple message. “Sorry.” Then added, “When you’re done being mad at me, remember, I love you.”

  Just after 10:30 p.m., Ruis Costas rubbed fire from his eyes and declared he was done. “Hey, boss, I have to go. If I don’t hit the sack soon, then I’m going to be worth shit tomorrow.”

  “Go. You’re worth shit to me anyway.” Jake jokingly waved his number two away. “Get yourself home, buddy, and thanks for everything. I really appreciate you staying on so late.”

  “No problem. I’ll be in around eight.”

  “Drive safely.”

  Jake’s cellphone rang within minutes of Ruis’s leaving. He looked for Angie’s number but caller display threw up a blank. “Mottram.”

  “Jake, it’s Connor Pryce. I’m about to walk into your reception. Can you have them clear me to come on up?”

  “Sure.” He wondered what warranted a personal visit rather than just a call.

  They both hung up and Jake buzzed the guards at reception to let the lieutenant come on through. He walked to the pantry to check if there was coffee brewing and then waited by the elevator down the hall.

  It dinged and Pryce stepped out. Despite the lateness of the hour, his tie was still tight to his immaculately white collar and he looked freshly shaved and smartly suited.

  “I just made a fix of caffeine. You want some?”

  Pryce smiled. “No, I’m good. Any more and I’ll be able to fly home.”

  “Maybe I should skip, too. Either that or file my flight path with LAX.” Jake walked him back to his office and they took seats at the desk.

  The cop dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out two evidence bags. “This is a MAC-10 cartridge case.” He dangled bag one. “And this a MAC-10 bullet tip.” He held up the second bag. “Both were found in connection with a shooting in Compton eighteen months back.” He tossed the bags across to the SKU man. “First, take a look down the side of the cartridge and at the rim.”

  Jake slid the seal open. He held the remains of the round between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it to the light.

  Pryce guided him a little. “See the front to back diagonal striation?”

  Jake tilted it until the barreling mark glistened. “Yeah, just.”

  “Flip it over and look at the end.”

  Jake knew what to expect. California law meant firing pins had to microstamp the cartridge with the make, model and serial number of the weapon that fired it. To stay anonymous, crooks removed the stamp, but doing that always damaged the pin and left its own unique mark. “Looks like a little moon.”

  “It does, you’re right. We found that, along with several more spent cartridges, in a sports bag at a suspect’s house.”

  “A sports bag?”

  “Yep, but it wasn’t the same as the one we saw at the mall.”

  “Still, it’s a gun in a sports bag with the same type of weapon.”

  “It’s better than that. Look at the bullet tip.”

  Jake opened the second evidence pouch. He lifted out the shiny business end of the bullet and rotated it until he found a barreling mark. He picked up the cartridge case again from the other bag and aligned the grooves. “Same caliber, same striation lines. I’m no ballistics expert but they look like twins to me.”

  “They are.” He watched Jake’s face as he revealed the big news. “And they’re the same as the ones in the bodies at the mall.”

  “What?”

  “The bullet tips are the same. They bear the same striation marks. They were fired from the same gun, a MAC-10. They match the cartridge there in your hand.”

  Jake felt the air bend.

  It was a connection.

  The first physical, forensic connection in the case. “So you know who the UNSUB is?” He held up both evidence bags.

  The cop’s face said the answer wasn’t going to be that easy. “Like I said, this case goes back a year and a half. It led to us arresting a young black guy named Aaron Bolt. He hung with the Pirus gang, affiliates of the South Side Crips. We were pretty sure Bolt had gunned down a sixteen-year-old who’d disrespected a senior gang member. It was his first kill. His initiation. We had full IDs and eyewitness on him. Bolt was heading to the big house.”

  “Was?”

  “Main witness got wasted before trial. As did his two-year-old son who was in his arms when the shooter came through his door in the early hours of the morning. Once word of that got out on the streets, the other eyes recanted. Said they’d been mistaken. Case collapsed.”

  “No witness protection?”

  “None at all. Local cops said they’d asked and got told there was no budget for it. No staff. No overtime.”

  “No fucking kidding. Do you know where Bolt is now?”

  “That’s the bad news. We don’t. I’ve had men in the hood all night. Right from the moment ballistics flagged a match with the mall murders. There’s no sign of him. We’ll keep checking, but we’re told he’s been missing from the street for about a week now.”

  Jake knew he was grasping at straws. “And the MAC-10?”

  “Never found it. When we arrested Bolt and interviewed him, he said he thought a MAC was a computer.”

  Jake gave a wry smile and realized he’d missed the most obvious question of all. “What does this Aaron Bolt look like? Does he fit the photos of our guy?”

  Pryce had known that one was coming. He put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out two photographs. One was an LAPD mugshot. The other a gang photo. Tellingly, Bolt was standing there in baggy black shorts, a white Nike T and a white Lakers baseball cap on his head. He was posi
ng moody and sullen for the camera, a Glock in each hand, the barrels aimed right down the lens.

  36

  Douglas Park, Santa Monica

  Aside from needing a cooling-off period, Angie hadn’t been lying about the necessity of some time on her own to write up her notes.

  She was beat.

  So tired that she had to wind down the window of her old Toyota to make sure she didn’t fall asleep at the wheel.

  As she headed home, she was still annoyed that Jake had been so crudely manipulated and that she had been unable to help and protect him.

  And after today’s monumental mess, things were only going to get worse. Rawlings and Dixon were bound to dodge all future heat and let Jake fry if it meant protecting themselves. Weak bosses always liked to have someone like Jake around to blame. Someone bold, brave and stupid enough to think he was doing the right thing.

  On top of all that, her mind was buzzing with personal stuff. The baby. Her maternity leave.

  A wedding to fix.

  Mad as she was at him, Jake Mottram was still the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. He just needed some training, that was all.

  Wedding—before or after the baby?

  It was a question she hadn’t thought of until today. After seemed best. That way, there was a chance she could get into a decent dress and make a real event of things.

  Maybe a ceremony on a beach.

  Barbados? The Bahamas? Miami?

  Or somewhere more traditionally romantic.

  Venice? Paris? Rome?

  Better still, marry on a beach and honeymoon in Europe.

  Angie was still smiling as she banged the car door shut, zapped on the power locks and climbed the stairs to her apartment.

  Jake’s stuff was everywhere and she instantly felt soft toward him. The army hadn’t managed to get him to be tidy, so she doubted she would. She shifted shoes in the hall and put them on a rack. Picked up a glass he’d left on the floor and put it in the dishwasher. Shifted a sweater from the back of a chair and put it on a shelf in a wardrobe he’d claimed for himself.