by Dan Alatorre
You’re a carpenter. Interesting.
But at your age, you have to be retired.
The killer’s finger slid into place over the trigger, gently guiding the crosshairs to the lowest point in the center of the old man’s back. An itch crossed the silent assassin’s spine.
Ignore it. Ignore the ants.
The urge to shudder swept over the killer, but was forced back and subdued.
Easy. Take it easy.
The victim’s white polo shirt and tan khaki shorts were an indication of his last year of caring about fashion. Somewhere in the 80s, he stopped paying attention.
The flow of traffic ebbed. A stop light created a momentary gap in the stream of vehicles.
When the old man stood, the killer re-aligned the crosshairs of the scope to the center of the victim’s back . . .
And fired.
The old carpenter’s shirt flipped up slightly as the dime-sized red dot appeared and a big red spray coated the back of the minivan seats. He sagged forward into the vehicle’s cargo bay, his ancient legs bouncing as they dangled from the open tailgate. His tools dropped and scattered over the ground.
A nearby seagull fluttered its wings and hopped away from its puddle, landing again on the far side of the Village Inn parking lot. Other than that, no one had noticed a thing—for now. The red light turned green, and traffic on Hillsborough Boulevard resumed.
“Mmm. Yes.” The killer took another deep gulp of musty air. The tingling filled every muscle, every corpuscle. “Wow, wow, wow.”
The shudder released, sending waves throughout the assassin’s torso. The rushed breathing became softer. The killer nodded. “Okay, okay, calm down. Take it easy. Breathe.”
Finally, the tingling faded.
“Ooh, hoo hoo.” Eyes closed, the sniper took another satisfying deep breath. “And that’s number two.”
* * * * *
In the green room of Tampa Bay This Morning, Carly stared at her shaking hands.
The stage door flew open and production assistant Jeannie burst into the room. “Oh my gosh, that was great. You did fantastic!”
Carly clasped her hands. “Oh my gosh, that was awful. The questions came so fast—I don’t feel like I answered any of them.”
“You did brilliant. Hiding a sprained ankle while you confronted and took down the serial killer who’d already disabled two of your male colleagues? Wow.”
Shifting her weight, Carly massaged one hand with the other. “I feel like I gave everyone the wrong impression. It—there were so many people who helped take down that serial killer. A team. Being a police detective is not a solo effort and I don’t think I was able to get that across.”
“Mm-hmm.” Jeannie flipped through the pages on her clipboard, not looking up. “I think everybody understood. You made a tremendous solo effort.”
Carly winced. “No, what I’m saying is, there was a whole team. My partner, the lieutenant—you didn’t mention them. There was even a private investigator, Tyree, and his assistant Lavonte. They all—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Jeannie raised a finger and pressed the headset to her ear. “What? Wow.” She beamed at Carly. “Great news. Have you heard of Dawn Across America with Dawn Guthrie?”
Carly held her hands out, taking a step toward Jeannie. “I think we need to just do the whole interview over. I don’t think I made the points I was trying to make.”
“Occasionally, a staff member from Dawn Across America will watch our raw feed.” Jeannie beamed. “Well, today was one of those days—and your story absolutely knocked their socks off!”
“If I could just list all the people who helped. It’s a team.”
“So, the staff member told Dawn, and now she wants to interview you. This might even lead to a guest spot on the Eileen show. Could you just die?”
“Right now, yes, I really could.”
Jeannie clutched her clipboard to her chest, pacing across the green room. “Eileen is so huge. Oh, my gosh.” She whirled around to face Carly. “Can you dance?”
“A little.” Carly grimaced. “If I have to.”
“Oh, come on. With those legs?” Jeannie swayed back and forth, swinging her hips. “I bet you’ve got moves. Everybody dances on the Eileen show. Even the president did.”
“Maybe that’s why his numbers are tanking in the polls.”
“Oh!” Jeannie’s finger went to her lip. “We’d better get you back into the makeup room. There’s time for a quick touch up.” The smiling production assistant rushed forward and put her hand on Carly’s shoulder. “This way.”
“No, no, I can’t.” Carly twisted out of Jeannie’s grasp. “I’d probably have to get clearance from my department’s PR director, anyway, so—”
Jeannie waved a hand. “That’s all done. The releases the department signed for Tampa Bay This Morning apply across the entire network and any of its shows. You’re all set. And I’m sure your PR director will love the extra publicity.” She flashed a dazzling grin. “Come right this way.”
“But Dawn Across America is shot in New York, isn’t it?” Carly managed a smile as she clutched her stomach again. “I mean, I can’t just drop what I’m doing and hop on the late morning flight.”
“It’s a satellite feed, Detective.” She put her hand on Carly’s shoulder, turning her. “We do it all from here.”
Swallowing hard, Carly inched toward the exit. “Wonderful.”
“You must be thrilled to help get the message out about the police department.” Jeannie leaned forward and opened the door for her guest. “Millions of people watch Dawn Across America.”
As Carly stepped into the hallway, the word “millions” reverberated in her ears. “I’m going to need to, uh . . .” She pointed toward the restrooms.
“Oh, of course. I’ll wait for you here.” Jeannie hugged her clipboard, swinging back and forth. “You’re about to be famous.”
“Oh, boy.” Carly put a hand on her abdomen and raced for the ladies’ room.
* * * * *
In what was to be the last killing of the morning, the assassin stared down the rifle scope at a woman vacuuming her car at a Shell gas station in Town-N-Country.
The service plaza on the west side of Tampa was busy with vehicles coming and going. She was in full view of everyone filling their cars, having parked just off to the side by the air pumps and water hoses.
Setting down the long blue hose, she followed it to the tall machine under the sign that said “vacuums.” She dug into her pocket and shoved coins into the slot, then walked back to her open car door. There, she rocked back and forth, pressing the blue hose across the floor of her car.
After a few minutes, she shoved the hose to the asphalt parking lot and stood, brushing the dust from the front of her t-shirt.
The rifle jolted. The woman crashed backwards into the open door, then dropped to the ground.
Moments later, people were by her side, pressing hands to the giant red wound at her neck and looking around frantically. Some phones went to ears; others videoed the carnage.
Her face was slack and white. She was dead before she hit the ground.
The sniper quivered, nearly bursting with excitement. The gas station was a panicked ant mound of activity.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah!” The weapon went to the side as the sniper held back a giggle, tapping the phone screen to check the time. “Hoo!”
The magnificent shudder, followed by the tingling. Normalcy slowly faded back in.
“That’s number three.” Regular breathing restored, the killer smiled and rolled over, eyes closed. “And that’s enough—for now.”
Chapter 4
Deshawn’s car had barely come to a stop before he was out of it. Red-faced, he stomped toward the edge of the pier. “How could you be so stupid?” He stormed past a dozen patrol cars and their flashing lights. “How?”
Wrapped in a blanket, Sergio held a paper cup of coffee, compliments of the nearby fire-rescue team. His hair was
still wet and a puddle had formed on the concrete beneath him. His rear end was perched on the ten-inch riser the Camaro had bounded across thirty minutes earlier. To his right, a flatbed beeped as it backed up to the riser, a small crane riding as its cargo. Technicians attached a harness to the bucket as the retrieval divers prepared to go into the turquoise waters of the bay.
About thirty feet down, the orange and black paint job of the Camaro rippled in the waves.
“You know, Sarge . . .” Sergio squinted at Deshawn in the bright morning sunlight. “I helped get Parmenter—a major league bad guy—off the street and I took a pretty big spill in the process. Aren’t you even going to ask how I am?”
The sergeant frowned. “Okay, how are you?”
At the rear of the fire-rescue truck, a paramedic glanced over his shoulder. “He’s fine.”
“Good,” Deshawn said. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, how could you be so stupid?”
“I . . .” Sergio shrugged, glancing around. “You know. It was Parmenter. I—I had to go for it.”
“Well, he’s behind bars downtown, now. But your little stunt has put this whole department in the hot seat right when we are trying to reestablish our credibility with the general public. Or did you forget there was a serial killer making the whole town crazy a few weeks ago?”
“I—”
“Don’t.” The sergeant narrowed his eyes and pointed his finger at his detective. “I get it. Parmenter killed Franklin. A scumbag kills your partner, it’s like he killed your brother. To the other guys on the force, you’ll be a hero. We all wanted to get him. And between you and me, I’m glad you did. But there are rules, Detective. And I’ve been getting slammed with calls from the lieutenant on my ride here. Wanna know what they’re about? Middle-aged bike riders nearly getting run over, on the city streets we’re supposed to serve and protect. An orange Camaro chasing a red Ferrari and causing a dozen or more parked cars to be wrecked. A few cars that weren’t parked, are now smashed up from a high-speed chase they tried to avoid—involving an orange Camaro and a red Ferrari.” The sergeant’s voice got louder, bits of saliva flying from his mouth as he shouted. “Then we have a group of first-grade school children, on a field trip, who are now crying their eyes out at the Tampa pediatric trauma ward because they and their teacher nearly got flattened like pancakes! By a red Ferrari that was being chased by an orange Camaro!”
The other officers and firefighters moved away as Deshawn paced back and forth in front of Sergio. The sergeant rubbed his hand hard across his face, staring at the sky. “And you know all their parents are going to sue the living hell out of us. There’ll be a line a hundred feet long, between them and the other victims of your little stunt today. This is going to cost the department millions. Millions!”
Lowering his head, Sergio stared at the concrete. His voice was a whisper. “I’m sorry, boss.”
A few reporters arrived at the scene. The other officers directed them away from the impromptu disciplinary action taking place on the pier.
Deshawn put his hands on his hips and looked out over the water. “I’ve always tried to watch out for the detectives under me, but you always insist on pushing things.” He glared at Sergio. “There’s going to be some serious heat coming down on the department after what you did today. Especially since it’s an election year.”
The sergeant’s words hit Sergio harder than the crash into the bay did. He sagged, eyeing the ground, going hollow inside.
“I’ve got your back. I’ll do what I can.” Deshawn shook his head. “I’m probably in as much trouble as you are, since I told you about Parmenter.”
“No.” Sergio waved his hand. “You also told me not to go after him, Sarge. More than once. This . . . this is all on me.”
The crane operator stepped to the rear of the flatbed truck. “Divers, get clear!”
An officer in scuba gear raised a thumb from the water. “All divers are clear.”
With a long, low whine, the crane’s winch hauled the Camaro, tail-first, out of the bay. Miniature waterfalls gushed forth from the doors and broken windows as the vehicle inched upwards. With a touch of the crane’s gears, the tow truck operator slowly guided the orange car toward the pier.
On the other side of the flatbed, the reporters’ flashbulbs went off like a fireworks display.
* * * * *
As the makeup artist applied brush strokes across Carly’s cheek, the news director approached. “Detective, for a satellite piece, it’s best if you watch the monitor here to get the questions.” The rotund man patted a tripod-mounted screen displaying a soup commercial. “And when you reply, look directly into the eye of the camera.” He turned to inspect the large piece of dark gray equipment with the glassy lens in front. It was taller than the man operating it, with a long, rectangular snout and a set of wide handlebars that could have come off a motorcycle. The chassis was an inverted cone on wheels that looked like a tall, metal wedding cake. The whole thing had the feel of a one-eyed sci-fi robot crossed with a high-tech military death ray. The director looked at Carly and tapped the side of the box holding the camera’s shiny eye. “Right here, Detective.”
“Yes.” Carly squirmed on her stool. A knot formed in her abdomen. “They told me.”
The camera operator pushed the camera a little closer. Leaning back, Carly forced a smile. “Does it have to be so close?”
“Okay, then. Just relax, you’ll be fine.” Whipping around, the director shouted to the stage hands. “People! We are live in New York in sixty! Millions of people will be watching, so let’s look professional!”
Carly winced, swiping her hands across her thighs again. On the monitor, Dawn Guthrie appeared and tapped a stack of papers. Carly took a deep breath and adjusted her earpiece.
The screen switched to a few highlights from the Tampa Bay This Morning show as a voiceover announcer recounted the story of the serial killer’s apprehension.
“And now, joining us live from Tampa . . .” Dawn Guthrie appeared onscreen. “Is one of the heroes responsible for taking down that dangerous killer. Detective Carly Sanderson is with us via satellite. Good morning, Detective.”
Trying to ignore the knot in her gut, Carly returned the greeting. Guthrie was cordial during the opening of the interview, and Carly did a good job of reviewing the basics of the case. She was brief and informative, but not too stiff—she thought. She kept her hands clasped in her lap to keep them from shaking.
Guthrie tapped her papers again. “Let’s dive a little deeper, Detective. Your partner . . .” She glanced at the notes in front of her. “Sergio Martin—he confronted Officer Davenrod with you in the departmental phone bank room. Davenrod makes threats, he attempts to take hostages, and then you and your partner follow the psychotic killer into the stairwell. Detective Martin attempts to fight the murderer hand-to-hand, but is thrown down the steps. Then you come in and finally take the serial killer down.” Guthrie’s eyes came back to the camera. “That is an absolutely chilling story.”
Carly nodded. “It was.”
“But in hindsight, can you really say everyone did their jobs? A serial killer was allowed to transfer into the Tampa police department.”
The camera operator pressed a button and the big lens moved closer to Carly. She resisted the urge to lean away from it. The director’s words echoed in her ears. Millions of people are watching.
Clearing her throat, Carly tried to look at the camera’s glassy eye without thinking about all the viewers on the other end. “I’d, uh . . . like to say we’re all professionals, but we’re still human.” She pulled the hem of her skirt over her knees. “If mistakes were made, we’ll try to make things right.”
“But mistakes were made.”
Carly’s heart pounded and the knot in her stomach grew bigger. “None of us are omniscient.” She forced herself to speak calmly and evenly. “I don’t see how mistakes won’t be made in a complex case like this—in any complex case. It’s not a TV show wher
e we catch the killer by the last commercial break of the hour. We do our best, and I work with some of the best people around.” She sat up straighter, raising her chin. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Really?” Guthrie raised an eyebrow. “Even though your partner talked you out of identifying the killer sooner? That may have cost lives.”
A jolt went through Carly. “That—that’s something I’d like to, uh, clarify.” She wiped her hands over the top of her thighs. A repeat of Tampa Bay This Morning would not be ideal. “He—that’s not what he did. Detective Martin and I, we talk—as good partners should. We discussed options. In the end, he wasn’t correct about Davenrod, but he didn’t have the facts I had at the time.”
Carly sat back a little, the knot in her stomach fading.
“But,” Guthrie said. “Doesn’t that also mean that if the roles were reversed—using your partner’s judgement and what he knew—doesn’t that mean the killer stayed on the loose longer than he would have? I mean, that is the bottom line, isn’t it?” Guthrie pointed into the camera. “You knew the killer’s voice and mannerisms. Phrases the killer spoke to you. He attacked you, Detective Sanderson, not your partner. Without you, he isn’t apprehended as quickly. Or, said more plainly, the system failed—didn’t it?”
Her mouth hanging open, Carly stared at Guthrie on the monitor. The camera operator pushed in closer. Carly glanced around. “I, uh . . .”
“The Tampa police department negligently hired a serial killer.” Guthrie leaned forward, glaring into the camera. “Your partner delayed the murderer’s apprehension and almost got you killed.”
The director stared at Carly. Stage hands stood silent, their eyes all focused on the lone detective in the bright lights.
Carly looked at the host on the screen. Guthrie set down her stack of papers and folded her arms, her gaze directly fixed on Carly.
“I guess I . . . I guess I never thought of it that way.” Her pulse throbbing in her ears, Carly cast her eyes downward, her voice wavering. “Not until now.”
