The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  Benziger looked at it curiously. “That what I think it is?”

  “If you think it’s a silencer, you’re right.”

  “Okay, what about it?”

  “This wouldn’t fit on any of the guns in that cabinet. But the ME said Culebra was shot in the head with a high-caliber bullet that probably came from a rifle. So the killer might have used this on the rifle. Then he took it off and left it behind.”

  “And took the rifle with him?”

  “If I’m right, yes.”

  “Wonder why he’d do that.”

  “Beats me. You have a better idea?”

  “Not at the moment,” Sam said.

  “Then let’s concentrate on how we find the shooter.”

  “That’s about where you started, isn’t it?”

  Barker grinned. “Yeah, but Culebra was killed on your turf. So now it’s your case, too.”

  41.

  “Well now,” Deke Edwards said, “you got here at the right time. I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “I’ve had some of your coffee,” Benziger said. “It took the lining out of my throat.”

  “That’s because you gulped it. Have to drink it slower. That way you get to enjoy the flavor.”

  He filled three mugs, handing one to each of his visitors. Sam dumped milk into hers and stirred the mixture.

  They sat at a table and Edwards said to Barker, “I got a feeling this might have to do with one of the gentlemen whose names I gave you. Am I right?”

  “Culebra,” Barker said.

  “Yeah, I thought so. Heard on a police scanner he got shot and his shop burned down.”

  “You heard correctly. I went to see him yesterday, and we had a talk. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who made the fléchettes.”

  “And now he’s in no shape to say whether he did or he didn’t.”

  “No shape at all.”

  “Which could explain why somebody shot him.”

  “Seems likely.”

  “You got anything more to go on?”

  Barker produced the metal cylinder, which was wrapped in cotton cloth. He gently laid the device on the table and drew back the cloth.

  Edwards peered at it. “Silencer, huh? Was this on the murder weapon?”

  “We don’t know, because we don’t have the weapon. But we think it might have been. And Culebra is almost surely the one who made it.”

  “Looks like it’s a better job than most of the ones we see,” Deke said. “And judging from the size of the threaded end, it was made for a high-caliber rifle.”

  “The ME thinks that’s what Culebra was shot with.”

  “But why would anybody bother to use a silencer in that neighborhood? You got guns going off there all the time. It’s drive-by central.”

  “We don’t know that, either. We’re hoping there are some prints on it.”

  “Okay,” Edwards said, “let’s get an expert opinion on that. Come with me.”

  He picked up the silencer and led them from ballistics to the center’s fingerprint section. That area was busy as well, with technicians in white coats checking prints on everything from knives to various hand tools and even pieces of paper.

  Edwards raised a hand and called out to one of the techs. “Hey, Linda. Got a minute?”

  A slim brunette came over to them, and Edwards introduced her to Benziger and Barker as Linda Gomez.

  “What can I do for you, Deke?” she asked.

  “If I told you, you’d say I was a sexist pig.”

  “You are a sexist pig. Now what do you want?”

  He chuckled and held up the cylinder, which was partially wrapped in the cotton cloth. “These folks are working a homicide. They think maybe the killer used this silencer on his gun. Can you get some prints off it?”

  She bent over the device and studied it for a moment. “I don’t know. Surface looks smeared. But I can try.”

  “You’re a doll, Linda.”

  “I know. I’ll take it over to my station and see what I can do.”

  “Good. Just don’t drop it.”

  “If I do, it’ll be on your head.” She deftly picked up the silencer, taking care to hold the cloth around it, and walked off.

  “She’s one of the best,” Edwards said. “Got a master’s in chemistry. We’re damn fortunate to have her. In fact, it’s hard to get any qualified people nowadays. Meantime, the workload in this place just gets heavier and heavier.”

  “Wipe away the tears, Deke,” Sam said. “Things are tough all over.”

  “Fair enough. But the crime rate’s up, and that dumps more work on the lab. Numbers don’t lie, no matter how much the mayor tries to massage ’em. He says the rate’s down, while the commissioner says the opposite. Which one are you gonna believe?”

  “How does the mayor manipulate the numbers?” Barker asked.

  “He throws in every kind of two-bit misdemeanor along with the serious crimes, and because there’s fewer misdemeanors than last year, that lowers the overall rate. Then he claims we’re making progress.”

  “So what’s the true picture?”

  “Murder rate in LA is almost twice the national average, and so are the rates of robbery, felony assault, car theft, and arson.”

  “The only one that’s lower than the average,” Sam said, “is rape.”

  “Burglary’s also down a little,” Edwards said.

  “Yes, although the mayor’s trying to treat that as less serious, if you can believe it.”

  “I don’t mean to brag,” Barker said, “but over the past few years New York has done a pretty good job of reducing crime. Now it’s called the safest of all big cities. The rates of every one of the major crimes are lower, especially homicide.”

  “Wish we could say the same,” Deke said. “Here, it always comes back to the gangs. They spend a lot of their time killing one another.”

  “We’ve got gangs in New York, too. And it’s a growing problem, just like everywhere else. So far we’re keeping it under control, but just barely.”

  Linda was back. “Okay, I got one readable print,” she said. “Best I could do.”

  Barker’s hopes rose. “Hey, good going!”

  Edwards said, “That’s my girl.”

  “I’m not your girl,” Linda said. “You want me to send the print to the FBI?”

  “Just as quick as you can do it.”

  She returned to her station.

  Benziger said, “What would we do without IAFIS?” That was the Integrated Automatic Fingerprint Identification System.

  “What we’d do,” Deke said, “is operate the way we did before it was invented. ’Course, that was before your time, Sam. But when I think back to how it used to take months to get IDs on prints, that’s when I appreciate IAFIS. Now we can get a response in less than an hour.”

  “I understand the database is the world’s largest,” Barker said.

  “That’s true,” Edwards said. “The master file holds more than fifty-five million sets of prints and criminal records. Tells you how many bad people are out there. And those are only the ones that got caught.”

  “Let’s watch Linda send the print,” Sam said.

  The trio went over to her station and stood behind Gomez. She’d dusted the cylinder and had picked out a single well-defined fingerprint. Next, she took close-ups of the light-colored aluminum surface with a digital camera.

  Not satisfied with the first few shots, she kept on until she had one that clearly portrayed the subject. She plugged it into her computer, and on the screen the loops, whorls, and arches of the print showed up in sharp detail.

  “Surface might cause a problem,” she said. “On account of the cylinder not being flat. Naturally, that distorts the image somewhat, so I can only hope the database can read it well e
nough to produce a match.”

  “You’re doing great,” Deke said. “Give it a try.”

  She called up the IAFIS website and sent a request for ID along with the images, stating that this was a criminal investigation.

  From his own experience, Barker knew the designation would elicit the quickest possible response.

  “Okay,” Linda said. “All we can do now is wait.”

  “I’m not very good at that,” Sam said. “Don’t have enough patience.”

  “Just relax,” Deke said. “Have some more of my coffee.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Barker checked his watch and began looking for ways to pass the time. He and Sam drifted around the lab, watching the techs carry out various forensic procedures. Some were examining hair and cloth samples; others were squinting through microscopes at hair and fibers. Still others were testing blood and bodily fluids, looking for evidence of drugs, alcohol, and poisons. All were making notes as they went along, to be used when writing reports of their findings.

  Barker knew he could never work in such a place. Like Benziger, he lacked the patience. Spending his days undertaking examinations like the ones going on here would drive him batty.

  He looked at his watch again. Nearly an hour had passed. Maybe Sam was right, and his theory was too much of a reach. Worrying that they were on the wrong path was making his nerves jump. Or maybe that was caused by Edwards’s battery-acid coffee.

  At last Linda Gomez called them back to her station.

  “There we are,” she said. “The FBI gave us the goods. Beautiful, huh?”

  Barker felt his hopes rise.

  Until he looked at the mug shot on the screen. It showed a man with tangled black hair and tattoos, including one of a star in the middle of his forehead. At the bottom of the photo was a number and his name: Alonzo Culebra. Instead of the killer, the print on the silencer had been left there by the victim.

  Shit.

  Linda hit a key, and another image appeared, showing Culebra’s rap sheet. A total of eight arrests, among them two for felonious assault and another for auto theft. That last had got him four years in Corcoran State Prison.

  There were a number of other notations on the sheet concerning distinguishing physical features, MO, parole details, and so on. But Culebra’s life story wasn’t what Barker wanted to see.

  Linda caught his expression. “You’re disappointed?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one who made the silencer. Not the one who killed him. But listen, thanks for trying.”

  “Anytime. Wish I could have been more help.”

  “Here’s something,” Edwards said. “While we were waiting for the FBI to come back to Linda, I did some measuring. The weapon the silencer was used on was a .50-caliber. That’s a unique rifle.”

  “Unique how?” Benziger asked.

  “It’s a sniper rifle. Either an L96A1 made by Accuracy International, or a Barrett M107. My guess is the one that killed Culebra was a Barrett.”

  “Why?”

  “US Armed Forces use the Barrett. The other one’s British. I don’t know how Culebra got hold of a Barrett, but it’s more logical he’d have one of those.”

  “So what’s different about a sniper rifle?”

  “The large caliber, to begin with. The only thing a Barrett’s good for is killing people.”

  “But couldn’t it be used by a hunter, somebody going after big game?”

  “Not likely. A big-game hunter wants power, but he also wants a rifle he can carry in the field without getting himself worn out. A Remington .300 Magnum, say, or a Ruger .375. Either one can kill any animal in North America. Moose, bear, elk, anything. Kill most anything in Africa too, for that matter. But compared with a Barrett, those are relatively lightweight.”

  “So this Barrett would be too heavy for hunting?”

  “Yeah, and too big. But for a sniper it’s ideal. There are two things he wants out of his weapon. One is impact. A .50-caliber will likely kill a man regardless of where on the body it hits him. If it hits him in the leg, for instance, it might take the leg off. Same with an arm. Guy would either bleed to death or die from shock.”

  “What’s the other thing a sniper wants?” she asked then.

  “Range. He wants to set up and zero in on an enemy even if the target is a great distance away. He’ll spot him with a telescopic sight and let go, and with a .50 he can be sure the bullet’ll get there.”

  “There are snipers in the Marine Corps,” Barker said, “fighting the Taliban and al Qaeda. They’ll shoot from a thousand, even two thousand yards.”

  “And score hits,” Edwards said. “Scratch one raghead.”

  “So if a sniper rifle is so heavy and clumsy,” Benziger said, “why would the guy who shot Culebra be lugging it around?”

  “I imagine,” Barker said, “it’s because he’s looking for another target.”

  42.

  Mongo believed the key to making a successful hit was planning ahead. You had to take your time, study the target’s habits, decide how you’d get the best opportunity. What you should never do was rush. Going off half cocked was asking for trouble. Or worse, failure.

  The immediate problem was the rifle. He wanted it handy when the time came, but if a cop caught sight of it while he had it with him, that could blow the plan before it ever got started. And yet the thing was so damn big there was no way he could hide it. Or was there?

  He thought about that, and eventually a light went on. There was a sporting goods store on Santa Monica Boulevard, and that was where he could get what he needed.

  He drove there and parked in the lot behind the store, hoping nobody would notice the .50-caliber with the barrel resting against the seat back. Better if he could have put it in the trunk, but it wouldn’t fit. So he’d just have to take his chances. He locked the car and went into the store.

  Along with the racks of Dodgers and Angels jerseys, and the displays of athletic junk ranging from baseball gloves and bats to scuba gear and tennis rackets, there was a whole section devoted to golf. He bought a cheap bag and a cover for clubs and went back out to his car.

  He put the rifle into the golf bag muzzle down, and then dropped the cover over the exposed stock. It was a perfect solution. He could carry the bag wherever he wanted, and anyone who saw him would take him for just another feebleminded schmuck whose idea of a good time was chasing a little white ball.

  The next step was to pick his spot. The area surrounding the Sunset Inn was no good. Too many cars and people, no place to hide and get set.

  So where? As he thought about it, he recalled that tailing the cop had revealed he often went to a building on Wilshire and spent the night.

  Easy to see why he did that. A sexy broad lived in the building, and that was like catnip to a cat. Mongo had seen them together and had recognized her at once. The weird thing was that she’d been Catherine Delure’s secretary.

  What was her name? Laramie, that was it. Dana Laramie. Mongo remembered her legs and the way her jugs had pushed out the front of her sweater when he saw her that morning in the Sherry-Netherland. No wonder the cop wanted some of it.

  But the question for Mongo was how he could be sure of taking him out. He thought there might be a workable location nearby, although that would require some scouting. At first glance, the neighboring buildings didn’t look too promising, but he’d check them out anyway.

  He parked in the same subterranean public parking garage he’d seen the cop use. Carrying the golf bag with the strap over his shoulder, he made his way up to the sidewalk and stopped in front of various store windows, pretending to study the merchandise on display. His face was obscured by a baseball cap and sunglasses.

  A few doors down, he found a building that might suit his purpose. It had the usual row of shops on the ground floor, and at one end
there was an entrance for use by residents of the apartments on the floors above. Unlike some of the other places, this one had no doorman.

  Was it workable? The best way to find out would be to bluff his way inside.

  Again he pretended to be window shopping, and when a woman went into the entrance of the building he followed her. She unlocked the inner door and he pushed it open for her, hoping she’d think he lived there too.

  She noticed the golf bag and smiled. “Nice day for it,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Beautiful.”

  He stepped with her into a small lobby, and she pressed a button for an elevator. When it arrived they rode up together, continuing to chat about the weather, and fortunately for him she got off at one of the middle floors.

  Mongo went on up to the highest, which was the tenth. When he left the elevator, he walked down the hall to the fire exit and opened the door.

  As he’d expected, the stairway ran from the ground floor all the way up to the roof. He went out onto the landing and wedged the door with a book of matches so he’d be able to get back in.

  From there, he took the stairs up to the heavy metal door that would lead outside. Once more he had to wedge the door open, and this time he used the cover he’d put over the rifle stock. Then he went out onto the roof.

  There were a number of structures up there. The largest of them apparently housed machinery of some kind, probably the building’s air-conditioning system. Another he supposed was for storage. There were also ventilation ducts, looking like upright metal tubes that curved over at the top.

  A low parapet ran all the way around the outer perimeter of the roof. Moving close to the edge and looking down, he found he could see the entrance of the target building quite clearly.

  Great, he thought. Plenty of places to hide up here, and at the same time he’d have an unobstructed view when he zeroed in on the cop. Right next to the parapet would be the best spot to fire from.

  It’d be risky to sneak a look, but he couldn’t resist. He pulled the rifle out of the golf bag and rested it on the parapet.