by Carla Norton
“Transport’s ready,” one of them says.
By the time Vanderholt is escorted from the building, his entourage has grown to six. No one jokes. This is a solemn bunch. Four are fathers.
The group exits the building and is hit by a cold wind that blows across the bare lot, penetrating the thin cotton of Vanderholt’s orange coveralls. He complains to the guards who are firmly gripping his arms, one on each side.
They barely hear his voice. The air is full of the diesel growl of the bulldozer.
The deputies shorten their strides to keep pace with Vanderholt, who shuffles forward in his shackles. The group proceeds along the new concrete walkway toward a van with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department emblem proudly displayed on its doors.
The bulldozer angles toward them, drops its bucket, and chews a massive bite from the earth. The men turn their heads to watch, marveling like boys. As they walk together, studying the bulldozer’s work, the air fills with the roar of the powerful engine and the smell of freshly torn soil.
No one is watching the prisoner when the bullet hits him, knocking a wet hunk from above his right ear.
Vanderholt sags to his knees, dropping heavily between the two confused deputies, who stagger and strain to support his body. Blood spills out on the ground. The entourage gawks in horror, then reacts as the guards surrender Vanderholt’s weight to gravity. The lawmen spin, pulling their weapons, trying to identify the direction from which the shot came, searching for a sniper hiding in the brush, by a house, on a rooftop, across the street, or somewhere up on the hill.
Spinning and searching, they realize they are exposed on all sides to buildings and traffic and a hundred hiding places, smack in the middle of what used to be a baseball diamond.
TWENTY-SEVEN
CNN, FOX, MSNBC, and all the major networks would later scramble to secure images of Randy Vanderholt’s shooting, but their disgruntled producers would have to settle for less interesting footage, because while Vanderholt was shuffling out of the jailhouse toward death, all the news teams and their cameras were downtown, focused on his attorney.
Clyde Pierson had paused to say a few words to the reporters gathered on the courthouse steps, unaware that his client had been shot. The television news cameras pulled in tight. And while Vanderholt’s blood was soaking into the bulldozed earth just a few miles away, Pierson was saying, “You all have been jumping to conclusions. Maybe it makes for juicy headlines, but you need to slow down now and let the legal process run its course.”
Reporters prodded him for details.
“Could you tell us about any evidence uncovered over the weekend?”
“Can you share the results of the cadaver dogs’ search?”
Everyone was hoping for some confirmation of guilt, or some shred of news about the other missing girls, but Pierson merely smiled, pointing out that there was absolutely no evidence linking his client to anyone other than Tilly Cavanaugh.
“Why did your client try to kill himself?”
“Is it true that Vanderholt confessed?”
“This investigation is only just beginning,” Pierson said, looking calm and comfortable. “I can guarantee that this case will prove much more complex than it might seem.”
Even the out-of-town news teams sensed a coming shift in the story.
With a glint in his eye and the provocative comment that “an array of mitigating circumstances must be fully addressed,” Pierson hurried up the steps, oblivious to the ambulance sirens screaming in the distance.
Minutes later, Clyde Pierson answered his ringing cell phone. He blanched, asked four brisk questions, and swallowed hard.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Duke’s cooling rifle lies hidden in the back of his Chevy Tahoe as he enters his office carrying a shopping bag from Radio Shack and a half-empty cup of coffee.
Officer Tomas Montoya pops in after him, saying, “Hey, did you hear the news?”
Duke scowls, gesturing at his shirt front, which features a dark, wet stain. “I’m scalded.” He tosses his Starbucks cup in the trash. “Not in the mood.”
“This will make you feel better. Vanderholt is dead!”
Duke raises his eyebrows. “Say what?”
“Shot this morning, just behind the jail.” Montoya says gleefully. “Heard it on the radio as I was coming in. Dead.”
“Holy shit.” Duke sits heavily in his chair, twisting his face into an expression approximating shock.
“Somebody took him out—pow!—right in the head,” Montoya says, raising his hands to mime the shot.
“Friggin’ amazing.”
“Plucked him off clean, didn’t even wing a deputy.”
“Damn. Wish I could have seen that.”
“Yeah, five minutes later, I’d’ve seen it, too.” Montoya bounces on the balls of his feet. “Forget the jury trial, justice is done.”
Kim Benioff swings into the doorway, eyes wide. “You heard already? About Vanderholt?”
“Montoya just said.”
“How sweet is that?” she says. “One bullet, and he drops like a wet sack.”
Duke just smiles. There were actually two shots, but only one bullet found its mark.
“Beautiful, right?” says Montoya.
“That shooter deserves a medal,” she agrees.
Duke pushes his chair back and stands. “So, did we get the shooter?”
“Not yet,” they answer in unison.
“Any suspects?”
“Yeah, my mother,” Montoya quips.
“And mine,” Benioff says, laughing. “Plus my grandmother, my sister, and my twelve-year-old niece.”
TWENTY-NINE
Gordon Cavanaugh sits in Jackie Burke’s office, sorting through a jumble of emotions. His initial shock has now bloomed into a strange, mean joy.
Randy Vanderholt is dead. His daughter is safe at home with his wife. His family will be spared the long, grueling ordeal of a public trial.
He feels both warmed and appalled. His eyes are wet. He has trouble focusing.
Jackie Burke hovers, grasps his elbow, and then she’s gone. Men and women in uniform rush past, cluster in the hallway, barge in and ask questions, then hurry off.
A familiar woman whose name he can nearly recall appears in the doorway and gushes, “We are all so glad that horrible man is dead! This must be such a relief!”
He nods at her and tries to speak, but his throat is clogged with emotion.
Jackie Burke reappears with a burly deputy at her side. They loom before him, shoulders square. The deputy asks, “Where is your son, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
He looks at the clock on the wall. “In class, I think.”
A rueful shake of the head. “I’m afraid we haven’t been able to locate him, sir. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“He’s a senior at Jefferson High. He should be at school,” he insists. The vengeful joy he felt only a moment ago is being nudged aside by some new emotion. “Maybe he’s at home.”
“Apparently not, sir.” The deputy’s tone is flat, but his stance is confrontational.
Gordon Cavanaugh frowns in confusion. His cell phone rings and he automatically checks the display. “It’s my wife. I’m sorry, may I take this?”
Jackie Burke glances at the deputy, saying, “Of course, but…”
The Cavanaughs have already had two conversations since learning that Vanderholt was shot, so he addresses his wife with a slight edge of complaint: “Honey, I’m still at the DA’s office.”
“The police are here, Gordon! They’re searching the house!” Her voice is sharp with panic. “They took your guns!”
And all at once, the last bit of warmth drains from Gordon Cavanaugh, replaced by a cold sense of dread.
THIRTY
Tilly Cavanaugh rocks on her bed, clutching her knees to her chest, while Reeve sits on the edge of the bed, watching her, trying to think of some way to soothe her, or even begin a conversation.
Mrs. Cavan
augh opens the door, gently sets a bowl of hot, fresh popcorn on the nightstand, and gives them a pained smile before returning to the knot of people in her kitchen.
The popcorn’s aroma fills the room, but it remains untouched.
* * *
The assassination of the suspect in a high-profile criminal case does not decrease media attention. This is Dr. Ezra Lerner’s observation as Deputy Hudson steers away from the house and down the driveway toward the clot of avid reporters waiting outside the Cavanaughs’ gate.
If anything, there are more reporters than ever. The news machine is geared up and hungry because the day is winding down while deadlines are looming. Because everyone in law enforcement has cut them off without comment. And because they are stirred by the scent of blood.
“Lot of them still here,” Hudson remarks, easing his SUV past the shouting reporters and turning onto the road. “I guess the only thing better than a pedophile’s trial is a pedophile’s assassination.”
Focused on the messages on his cell phone, Dr. Lerner mutters, “The show must go on.”
Everyone is tired. Hudson’s usually erect posture has slumped. Reeve reclines on the backseat in her customary position, but makes no move to sit up once their vehicle turns the corner and heads back into town. And Dr. Lerner’s face is etched with worry.
He sends text messages to his wife, his receptionist, his teaching assistant, and his dean at UCSF, then pockets his phone. He puts his head back and shuts his eyes, going over the day’s events, trying to discern what is bothering him. Thoughts sluice past. Like a prospector working a stream, he dips and sifts, searching.
He has treated survivors and their families in a dozen countries on three continents, but he has never seen this. The entire Cavanaugh family is in a state beyond shock, beyond emotional overload. He has done his best, spending all day with them, individually and together, but feels he has missed something.
He considers how Gordon and Shirley Cavanaugh hunkered down in the aftermath of Vanderholt’s shooting. Shocked by the event, stunned by the suspicion cast their way. Offended, of course. Angry and scared, waiting for their son to be cleared.
Matt had come home pretending to be defiant, trying to cover his embarrassment, like any kid caught skipping school.
Meanwhile, the law enforcement officers were walking an ethical tightrope. They seemed elated that their suspect was dead, but defensive because they had failed to protect him, had failed to bring him to justice. And now they had an assassin on the loose.
Gradually, tension had given way to a strained, dark humor. Gordon Cavanaugh brought out a bottle of whiskey and prepared generous mugs of Irish coffee, while his wife offered freshly baked cookies.
Had Tilly eaten any?
No. The cookies and milk had been refused. In fact, Tilly had barely left her room, responding to the news of Vanderholt’s death with a stricken expression that soon hardened into something else.
What?
Shirley Cavanaugh had sent a bowl of fresh popcorn in to “the girls.”
The popcorn had come back untouched.
Later, Reeve had come out of Tilly’s room, unhappy and shrugging.
Meanwhile, Dr. Lerner had sat at the kitchen table, sipping black coffee while Gordon and Shirley Cavanaugh dipped cookies in their hot drinks. He had listened, trying to help them slowly work through a long day of overcharged emotions.
Mrs. Cavanaugh had said, “I don’t understand why Tilly is so upset about that monster being killed. It must be Stockholm Syndrome, is that right, doctor? Is that it?”
And this is the bit that troubles him.
THIRTY-ONE
Duke’s house amply serves his needs. Shortly after his parents died, he redesigned the entire place, knocking out walls, rewiring circuits, refitting doors and windows. He did all the work himself—why hire some interfering contractor?—and he’s particularly proud of having transformed the useless, screened-in porch that ran the length of the south side of the house into functional space. Now the area off the utility room provides plenty of storage, plus a work space that perfectly suits his noncarnal, nonelectronic interests.
Firearms are a particular favorite.
He hums to himself while preparing to clean his rifle. He takes pleasure in this routine. The tops of the washer and dryer make a suitable work station, just the right height. He places a thick sheet of plastic atop the appliances to create an even surface, and a special chamois on top of that, then assembles his kit. He sets out the ramrod, cleaning cloths, nitro solvent, and gun oil. He hefts the M24, expertly extracts the trigger, and removes the bolt. He takes his time cleaning the weapon, using just enough solvent, gently pushing the rod down the barrel, repeating this step until a fresh pad comes out clean. Next, he puts on latex gloves, moistens a cloth with gun oil—just a little—and wipes down every metal surface, removing fingerprints.
When finished, he sets the bottle of solvent and the tin of gun oil next to the Dri-Lube on a shelf where he keeps turpentine and similar fluids. He returns the cleaned sniper rifle to its case, which he built himself, and slides the case into a concealed spot above a specially designed gun cabinet, which he also built himself. The rifle case fits snugly into its spot.
He returns the unused bullets to their box on the shelf where he keeps most of his ammo. He takes pride in calibrating and loading every round, and has perfected combinations for every need, such as extra grains of gunpowder for more firepower, or lighter slugs for greater distance. He buys his powder and ammo in bulk.
Besides the sniper rifle, he owns two shotguns and six other, more ordinary hunting rifles. Four pistols—a Colt 1911 and three Glocks—are kept at strategic spots throughout the house, with extra ammunition stored close by. He also has two handmade suppressors, plus a .44 Magnum with a scope for recreation.
Duke keeps all his guns loaded and ready, just in case. But he has a rule against practicing with any of these firearms on his own property. Even in this sparsely populated area on the outskirts of town, discharging a weapon is prohibited, and he would never recklessly draw attention to his stash of weapons. An air rifle, which he keeps by the side door, is sufficient for everyday shooting, like eliminating cats and other pests.
Sometimes, he stashes his kill in the freezer. “You never know when you’ll need some bait,” he recalls his father saying.
Duke sets about reloading the air gun with .22 caliber pellets. He then wipes up residual spills, tosses the latex gloves in the trash, and thoroughly washes his hands in the utility room sink. He strips off his clothes, crams them into the washer, adds detergent, starts the wash cycle, then walks nude through the length of the house.
After a hot shower, he dresses in workout gear, unlocks the control room door, and sits in his favorite chair, facing a bank of four computers. He resets the Sniffer program, flagging words like sniper and shooter and assassination.
All day, he has wondered how Tilly Cavanaugh might react to her keeper’s death, but has had to focus on his role at work, helping the dimwitted IT guys with a computer glitch, managing surveillance of two local drug dealers, writing reports about the clichéd activities of mundane criminals, wrapping up loose ends before taking his vacation.
Now he can replenish himself.
He decided years ago that he would never allow desk work to turn him soft. For this evening’s workout, Duke selects the morning’s recording from Mr. C’s cell phone, then inserts earbuds, slips on lifting gloves, and settles onto the lifting bench.
As he begins a set of bench presses, he recognizes the unpleasant pitch of Jackie Burke’s voice. Burke the Bitch.
He exhales as he lifts. His muscles warm.
He has just begun his second set when he hears that Gordon Cavanaugh’s son is a suspect in Vanderholt’s shooting. He chortles. This is sweet news. Matt the brat conveniently decided to skip class just as the crosshairs were finding Randy Vanderholt’s ear.
Duke snickers, picturing the gawky teen forced into an
embarrassing admission involving a moist and sticky cheerleader.
He has just begun his third set when he hears about the cops searching the Cavanaughs’ home. When he learns that Mr. C is a veteran who owns three high-precision rifles, he laughs so hard he nearly drops the two-hundred-pound bar.
THIRTY-TWO
Wednesday
Budget cuts are not the topic of this morning’s briefing, but Officer Kim Benioff can’t help but curse them as she takes her seat. The room is freezing. Benioff sits with arms crossed, uncomfortably aware that her thick, curly hair is still damp from the shower, resenting the bureaucrats who decided to save a few bucks by curtailing heating costs.
Benioff checks the empty seats and stifles a groan. The Joint Special Operations Task Force has shrunk to puny numbers. Originally a group of eight police officers and eight sheriff’s deputies, the JSOTF now totals only twelve. Staff cuts, disguised as “mandatory unpaid vacations,” mean another redoubling of her work load.
Lieutenant Paul Stephens bursts into the room, followed by a burly man in a suit, and claps his hands like a basketball coach. “Listen up, people!”
The uniformed men and women in the room snap to attention.
Lieutenant Stephens scowls at a stack of reports he arranges on the table before him, then stands tall at the front of the room and makes eye contact with each individual. “You all know that we’re under the microscope here, and the news is not good. Our primary suspect is dead, the shooter’s trail is going cold, and we haven’t got much in the way of evidence, so let’s get cracking.”
Signaling a hefty man with black-rimmed glasses, he says, “Howard, tell us what you’ve got.”
Officer Howard stands. “Yes, sir. We’ve figured the trajectory.” The ballistics expert clicks keys on a computer that projects a topographical map onto the screen at the front of the room. “It puts the shooter somewhere about here, at this elevation, probably in this wooded area,” he says, using a laser pointer to indicate a hill overlooking the jail. “The problem is, this hillside is dense with brush and trees, and the area is approached from a blind curve. Also, it’s adjacent to this semi-industrial strip. Cars come and go, but so far no one remembers anything significant.”
