Spree

by Michael Morley

  Shooter looked away and watched the pale new day slide by the side window. He directed the slob of a driver down a twist of backstreets and made him park a good block from his sanctuary.

  “Where your place?” Januk locked the wheeled Dumpster and stared curiously at the industrial buildings around him. “I don’t see no movie set. No Hollywood.” He coughed up phlegm and spat it hard by his feet.

  “We need to walk a bit.”

  “I don’t like walk. God made cars so I don’t need to walk.”

  Shooter ignored him and strode on ahead. His mind was focused on how to get rid of the pain in the ass. He was big and strong, which meant the simplest and least risky thing would be to sit him down and shoot him in the back of the head.

  It would be messy though.

  Blood and bone flew farther than he’d imagined. He’d learned that from the mall. The MAC was certainly too powerful. It’d kill Januk no problem but tear a hole in a wall as well. He’d probably have to use a handgun and try to shoot downward. Even then, there was a chance of ripping up part of the floor.

  “How much farther we go?”

  “Couple of minutes, that’s all.”

  “Minutes?” he moaned. “Why couldn’t we drive nearer? Why we have to walk this far?”

  “Nowhere to park; you’d get your vehicle towed. I’m doing this for you, so be grateful.”

  Januk fell quiet and wheezed for the rest of the way.

  Shooter halted at the chain-link and produced a key for the padlocks. The sooner he got the guy inside and whacked him, the better. If he’d had to walk another block, he was sure he would have killed him in full public view.

  Januk stared at the old factory. “I know this place. They used to make shoes here. I bought boots very cheap once.”

  Shooter swung the gate open and let his boss through. “I just rented it. I told the authorities I was renovating, but I’m not. I only use it to shoot pornos.” He shut the gates and the padlocks.

  Januk shrugged. “You close everything? You stupid? How will your girls get in?”

  He took out his cellphone and waggled it. “They’ll call me and I’ll come and open up.” He swiped a finger over the screen, accessed a security app and keyed in an alphanumerical sequence to deactivate the booby traps.

  Januk looked up at the CCTV cameras on the flat roof and waved. “I like cameras and films. One day I buy a 3-D television and watch porno on that.” He stretched out his hands and twisted them midair. “You can feel the tits through the tube, yes?”

  He was still laughing and groping imaginary breasts when Shooter punched in a further set of numbers on an old security door and pulled it open. He flicked on an internal light and they both stepped inside.

  “I need shit,” announced the unwelcome guest. “I shit same time every morning. Habits are good for you. Where’s your place to shit?”

  Shooter led him to the old toilet block and pushed open a door. “Make yourself at home.”

  Januk playfully slapped his face on the way past. “Then I get fucked, yes?”

  Shooter smiled. “Oh, yeah, you’re definitely going to get fucked.”

  9

  Douglas Park, Santa Monica

  Angie’s head was the most messed up it had ever been. Only thing she knew for sure was that she wasn’t going to wear black.

  No freaking way.

  Jake was still alive. At least in her head, and that was how she was determined to keep him. Upright Jake. Bright-eyed, warm-handed Jake. Not the cold-limbed, sheet-wrapped and shot-to-death Jake they’d tried to palm her off with at the hospital.

  That was their bogus Jake.

  Fake Jake.

  And Angie had no time for him.

  Her real Jake needed her now. Needed her brain, her drive and her determination to find the triggerman—that cowardly waste of skin and bone who’d cut him down.

  And she would. She knew she would because she was angry. And she and Anger were old friends. They went way back to the early days of her childhood when her world was full of all kinds of serious shit and shitsters. When the going got tough, Anger had always been there to give Angie a brutal edge and help her fight her corner.

  She opened the closet and decided on hard business cottons. Dark navy jeans, a plain gray top and a long, loose gray cardigan that would cover the gun she planned to belt to her hip. The bottom of the closet offered a store’s worth of shoes. She went for sneakers rather than her favorite Prada pumps—comfort and speed rather than style and grace.

  Once she’d tied her hair back and found shades to cover her bloodshot eyes, she and Anger were ready to kick ass.

  10

  The toilet flushed. There was silence and then it flushed again. A tap ran and Januk hollered from the bathroom, “I think I block your john!”

  Shooter was waiting outside, sickened by the laughter in his boss’s voice.

  He’d removed the bulb in the short corridor. Changed into old overalls. Now he lay in the dark.

  “It is the meat loaf from work that I have left you as a present,” shouted Januk as he came out. The door banged shut on its spring and he added, “Hey, there are no lights here. Where the fuck do I go?”

  Shooter stayed quiet. He heard the dumb Polack’s hands slap against the wall so he could feel his way along the corridor.

  “I can’t fucking see.” Januk bumped a wall and swore in Polish. “Kurwa!”

  Shooter could smell him now. The stink of his body. Salt. Sweat. Stale semen.

  Soon there’d be blood.

  “Where the f—”

  “I’m here,” he said calmly. “Stay still, I’ll guide you along.” He put a reassuring hand on his boss’s shoulder, got his body bearings, then jammed a five-inch hunting knife into Januk’s gut.

  Clothing blunted it. Held up its deadly passage. Prevented it going in as far as he’d expected.

  Shooter leaned forward and pushed harder.

  Januk gasped out air. “Hooh.”

  Harder.

  “Hooooh-hooooh.” He sounded like a steam train starting up.

  Shooter felt the steel nick a rib. His hand punched Januk’s belly. The blade was all the way in now.

  “Hoooooooh-hoooooooh.” He doubled up. Grabbed at clumps of darkness.

  A desperate hand caught Shooter’s wrist.

  Despite being wounded, the big man had a grip like a vise.

  Shooter could feel him forcing the knife out.

  The effort started the train noises again. “Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo.”

  Januk dug deep. His survival instinct kicked in. He snaked a second hand onto the knife arm. Forced the blade down. And out.

  Shooter stumbled backward. Hit a wall. Felt pain slap the back of his skull.

  Januk went woozy from the exit slash and sudden rush of blood. He lurched and staggered. His desperate hands clawed the dark. Found his attacker’s face. Fat fingers searched for a grip. An eye to gouge. A mouth to force his hand into so he could break the jaw like a clamshell.

  Januk found a pillar of flesh.

  A neck to break.

  A throat to choke.

  Shooter stabbed upward in the dark. Hit unseen meat. Once. Twice. Blood spurted over his hand. The knife twisted in his wet fingers. Fell away. Clattered into the darkness.

  Januk’s fingers tightened around his attacker’s neck.

  Shooter’s legs went. His windpipe was shut by iron thumbs.

  The supervisor came down on top of him. Grimy hands kept their choke hold. He was unable to breathe and was blacking out.

  The fingers suddenly slackened. The heavy body on top of him went limp. The big moon of a head dropped from the black sky and hit him in the bridge of his nose.

  Januk twitched and spasmed.

  A last huff of foul air escaped.

  Shooter felt blood and piss seep from Januk’s corpse.

  He pushed the dead weight off him. Rolled it onto the floor. Lay panting as fear filled his crushed lungs.

 
He stayed on his side for what seemed an eternity.

  Finally, he laughed. Laughed hysterically.

  It had been a messy start to the day.

  But Shooter knew it was about to get even messier.

  11

  FBI Field Office, LA

  Angie drove to work. She knew it was crazy. Knew the expected thing was to stay at home and be consumed by grief. But she wasn’t going to do that. Not yet. Not until she’d done all she could to help catch Jake’s killer.

  She traveled with the radio off. News of Jake’s death was bound to be on the bulletins and she didn’t want to hear it.

  The route she took down Wilshire was one she’d done a zillion times but today it felt like unknown territory. She was on edge. Apprehensive. Thrown by where and when she had to turn. Her internal compass was totally screwed.

  Life had fundamentally and irrevocably changed.

  But only hers.

  Everyone else seemed to be plowing their usual furrows. Deliciously stuck in comfortable ruts. She looked across the traffic and saw a woman in a business suit putting on makeup behind the wheel of a Lexus. A tired mom in a Ford was half-turned, trying to soothe a crying child in a baby seat. Two young girls in a Fiat were flirting outrageously with stubble-bearded guys in an open-topped Merc level with them.

  If only they all knew how lucky they were. How special their status quo lives were. How priceless it was for life to stand still.

  The parking garage at work seemed bigger and emptier. The elevator ride slower and more claustrophobic. Her office felt as if it already belonged to someone else.

  Angie made coffee and turned on the computer. Chips had left her a note. “WILL BE IN EARLY. LOTS TO TELL YOU! X”

  She had lots to tell him, too.

  Reassuringly, the coffee turned out to be as bad as it had always been. She put it down and thought about Jake’s killer. Instinctively, she was sure it was the UNSUB behind the mall atrocities. But experience had taught her that she could be wrong. It could just as feasibly be a publicity-seeking crackpot, a seriously deranged psychotic, or maybe someone seeking revenge for an arrest Jake made years ago.

  Angie pulled paper out of a printer tray and grabbed a pen. She knew she was physically and mentally wasted, so making a list of the simple stuff was a way to make sure she didn’t miss anything.

  Jake’s death was a homicide, so the LAPD would be involved as well as agents from the FBI—the Bureau wouldn’t rest until justice was done.

  She stayed focused, began to write slowly and carefully.

  1. WHO’S WHO—LIST OF CONTACT NUMBERS FOR CASE INVESTIGATORS.

  Angie knew that the CSIs would already be at his apartment and have the dope on the weapon used.

  2. CSI REPORTS.

  She’d want copies of their findings and any other cross-refs they’d made.

  3. BALLISTICS.

  4. TRACE.

  Angie wrote the words in capitals because she couldn’t form joined-up writing with her left hand. It slowed her down and the clock was ticking. Soon people would be coming in. They’d be all over her, telling her to go home, back off, stay out.

  5. THE SCENE.

  She would have to go to the apartment block, see where Jake fell, look at where the triggerman had stood.

  6. PREMEDITATION?

  Had the UNSUB already been there, lying in wait for Jake to return?

  How did he even know where Jake lived?

  7. FOLLOWED?

  She ran her pen underneath the letters. Jake’s phone number was unlisted and his address was tough to unearth at short notice. He must have been tracked from work. CCTV cameras on the FBI building might have caught the UNSUB or his vehicle.

  8. SECRETS.

  Angie hesitated. She tapped the pen on the desk like a child with a drumstick. She knew Jake better than anyone, but her experience as a profiler—and a woman—said there were still going to be secrets, things and people she had been unaware of. Investigators would need access to his computer, phone records, diaries, notebooks, desk drawers. And if she was going to help catch his killer, she needed all that data as well. She wrote down:

  9. MEETINGS, MOVEMENTS, CONTACTS.

  Again she hesitated. Another two beats with the drum pen.

  Lovers?

  She couldn’t write it down.

  Was she really the only one?

  This doubt had sharp and twisted roots and they burrowed painfully through her aching brain. They’d had their rows, their weekends and nights apart, their mini-breakups. He was so good-looking, charming, decent and downright fuckable—did she really think she was the only woman in his life?

  She did.

  She absolutely did. With all of her soul and all of her heart she knew that was how it had been.

  But before her, there most certainly had been others. Numerous others. Too many to list on her single sheet of paper. Maybe there was someone who still carried a torch for him. A lunatic woman with an even more lunatic boyfriend or husband who’d snapped when they’d seen Jake on TV.

  Angie wrote it down:

  10. EX-LOVERS & THEIR PARTNERS.

  Undoubtedly, the press conference had been the stressor. She’d need to carry out a detailed examination of all those stupid words that stupid Danielle Goodman had put in his beautiful mouth.

  11. MEDIA CONFERENCE TRANSCRIPT.

  She drained her coffee, held up the beaker and dripped out the last bitter dregs.

  12. THE HYBRID?

  Had the UNSUB killed Jake?

  Only someone with the cold audacity to bomb mourners would have the boldness and badness to take the life of someone as good as Jake.

  But there was no shortage of other bad people to suspect and no stone could be left unturned. Jake’s life inside and outside the Marines had seen him make powerful enemies—military-trained criminals capable of anything, including rape, abduction, arson, bombing and homicide. The more she thought about it, the more she had to consider the possibility of an ex-soldier settling an old grudge. It certainly fit with an MO that included surveillance, tracking, ambush and execution. Maybe the bungled shots were deliberate. Misfires to make investigators believe a pro hadn’t been involved.

  The door opened slowly.

  Angie looked up from her list.

  Chips stood there.

  There was no T with a smart-ass slogan today, just a plain white shirt over black trousers. He looked like an intern. An intern who’d been crying.

  “Angie?”

  His voice was slow with pain. It was obvious he’d been told the news.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m working.” She filled up. “And, boy, could I do with some help.”

  He stepped close and embraced her. “You’ve got it. All the help you need.”

  12

  Shooter replaced the bulb in the corridor.

  The bright light made him squint and showed the mess to be more terrible than he’d expected.

  The walls were covered in spatter. Smears and scuff marks on the plaster showed where they had struggled. Body meat dripped from the ceiling.

  Before he did anything else, he got his video camera and filmed the dead man. He took wide shots and low shots. But most of all he took close-ups. Later he’d add filters and effects. Saturate the color. Make it look as if it had been shot on grainy 8 mm film.

  The corridor stank. It was rank with the smell of their fight. The sweat. The fear. And now the postmortem blood and gases.

  Januk’s body looked like a beached whale. The guy was massive. And he had to be moved.

  Shooter cursed himself for not having thought more about this aspect. He’d never had to dispose of a corpse before. He’d always walked away after the kill and left the mess to others.

  Now it was his problem.

  It was clear that he couldn’t conceal a six-foot-four-inch, three-hundred-pound male on the premises. Nor could he carry—or even drag—it any meaningful distance.

  H
e’d have to either use Januk’s vehicle. Or one from work.

  Shooter put his hands around the dead man’s ankles and pulled.

  He moved an inch. Maybe two. That was all he could shift him.

  Shooter let go. The heavy leg hit the floor with a thump. He studied the cooling cadaver.

  There was only one thing he could do.

  And he was completely unprepared for it.

  Dismemberment.

  13

  FBI Field Office, LA

  They came for her as a group. As Angie knew they would. Mob-handed. A band of do-gooders, intent on shooing her out of the building and keeping her away from what she did best.

  Did better than any of them.

  “No one knows Jake”—she corrected herself—“knew Jake better than me.” The past tense stung but she didn’t stumble. “No one understands Serials like I do and no one can work this case as well as me.”

  She was sitting on the edge of her desk; Chips stood protectively at her side. Opposite them were Sandra McDonald, Ruis Costas and their surprise recruit, Suzie Janner.

  The assistant director called the shots. “Angie, you know you’re too emotionally connected to this. You shouldn’t even be here today, let alone be thinking about working.”

  She felt her fingers curl around the end of the desk, almost as though she were ready to physically resist them. “I should. And I think if any one of you had lost someone like I’ve just done, then you’d be at your desks, too.”

  Suzie Janner took her turn to try to make her see sense. “Honey, there are a lot of good people already working this case, colleagues of Jake’s who are fired up and getting things going. You can trust them to do a good job.”

  “You can’t go breathing down people’s necks,” added Ruis. “You might slow things down, force them to make mistakes.”

  “I’ll stay in this room.” Her knuckles whitened. “Just give me the data I need. I’ll run everything through you.”

  “This isn’t negotiable, Angie.” McDonald’s voice was firm but sympathetic. “I want you to take compassionate leave, starting right now. Please save whatever files you have been working on, turn off your computer and go home.”