Closure

by Randall Wood

  “Okay, we’ll be careful.” Sydney would do a good job, he was sure. Small mistakes could become serious at trial. This was also Jack’s first case without his mentor. Deacon was taking a chance on him, despite his success on the last case. Same chance he was taking on her. She wouldn’t fail him.

  “Where are you gonna be, Jack?” Larry had stopped scribbling.

  “I’ll be at the crime scene. I want to see just how good this shooter is.” He picked up his pile of paper and began reading. Meeting over.

  “What about the letter?” Dave’s partner asked at the other end of the plane.

  “Could be just to throw us off, could be the real thing. First we have to rule out everything else. I’m sure the guys in Behavioral Science are reading it this minute,” Dave replied.

  The new guy nodded and began reading the victim’s tax report from the last year.

  The faxes Jack held just confirmed his opinion of T. Carlton Addicot. T. (Theodore) had started in his father’s firm of Wall Street lawyers right out of law school. His father was tight with money, and made T. work his way up like all the others. T. quickly tired of the ninety-hour work weeks and slumming with the other associates. Feeling he was better than them, he only stayed until opportunity arose. When a file crossed his desk that had potential for a large settlement, T. swiped it and started his own one-man firm. The case turned out to be better than T. had imagined. The employee of a large chemical company was having health problems, and believed the chemicals he worked with might have been to blame. With a little investigating, and the help of a disgruntled security guard, T. discovered half the plant with the same symptoms. He signed them all up and sued. The company settled and T. became a wealthy man. No longer needing his daddy’s money, he set out to build himself a mass tort machine. What followed was twenty-five years of lawsuits all aimed at large companies and defective products. Everything from diet pills to tobacco to lead paint. He now owned his own building in downtown Orlando, complete with eighteen lawyers, two accountants, eight advertising people, four company researchers and countless paralegals and secretaries. He also personally owned four houses, a cattle ranch, two boats and a new Gulfstream 5 jet. His current net worth was somewhere in the 350 million dollar range. T. also had a partnership with a lawyer in every state, which helped sign up the clients faster. His ads were on the television morning and evening; the better to make folks worry all night or all day, and drive them to his hotline to get signed up. He’d been on the cover of a few magazines, never with much good said about him. His firm and wealth now dwarfed his father’s, and T. had even more lined up for the future. Friends included some of the country’s sleaziest criminal and mass tort lawyers, and they sometimes worked with each other on the big suits. T. Addicot had made so many enemies that there was really no good place to start. The only thing Jack did know was that he had struck no deals with the government to talk about any of his clients. He had not informed the FBI or local police of any threats on his life.

  “Well, that just leaves every client he had ever screwed and about two dozen large corporations that he’s taken for millions each. I’ll have this cleared up in a week.” Jack cursed to himself. No one would say T. had it coming, but they would all think it. Even himself, Jack admitted. The man knew how to pervert the justice system, just like the letter said.

  How to proceed? Do I treat this as an individual case, or do I factor in the letter and try to see where it’s going next? The professional side of him knew to dot the i’s and cross the t’s on the Addicot shooting first, but the cowboy in him wanted to run with the letter end. No, Deacon had given him this case to run, a big step for someone with his amount of time in the bureau. He’d go by the book until it was time not to, or the director gave him the go-ahead. The letter writer claimed to have skills. Well, Jack knew how to shoot also. He would see when he got there if the shooter was true to his word. That would either bolster the letter’s claim, or mark the writer as an amateur. An amateur, even a determined one, could be counted on to make mistakes; mistakes that would lead to his or her arrest within a short period of time. A professional could keep this up for years as long as he minimized chance and covered his tracks. Unlike on television, a true professional was not often caught unless they made a mistake, had an unlucky occurrence, or just plain got sloppy. As he read the letter for the seventh time, Jack was hoping for an amateur, but his gut was saying professional.

  One hour left till arrival. Just enough time to read all the newspaper articles that had accompanied the letter. Jack settled in and tuned out the conversations around him.

  * * *

  Paul was worried. But then, he was always worried about Sam. Sam had collapsed in bed as soon as they got home, and now Paul was sitting in front of the computer trying to determine what he might wish to do next. Or maybe who was the better choice of words. Sam would sleep for the next twelve hours, he was sure, so he would just have to wait to hear the details on the lawyer. CNN hadn’t really added to the story since they started, and although he knew it would be inaccurate, he kept the station on.

  Sam had gotten away clean. That he was sure of. Sam knew what he was doing in that regard and Paul had little doubt in his abilities.

  The scanner in the corner squawked to life, announcing a fire on the other side of town. The township fire department was responding. Paul watched his fish swim around in its bowl on his desk as the volunteers called themselves en route one by one.

  Paul sat up and logged onto the Internet to double check the trip to Las Vegas. The hotel and two rental cars were all booked with verification numbers. The rentals had unlimited miles. The storage facility had been rented for three months. The hardware should be right where he left it.

  The fire was a residential home with smoke showing from the roof. The firemen would have some work tonight. The Chief called for another truck and an ambulance on stand-by. The scanner was putting out a lot of radio chatter. The fish was not impressed.

  Paul went over his activities for the past month. The IDs he had obtained in Canada were first-rate. He had already used a few shopping for the items Sam needed. Nevada was the perfect place to shop. With all the mining in the area, explosives could be had with nothing more than a valid driver’s license. Blasting caps and wire were as easy to acquire as a gallon of milk. He had made a total of eight trips to find the rifles that Sam had demanded. Expensive Remingtons, but money was not a real problem. Handguns had been purchased on the streets in Chicago, Vegas and Detroit. A turn on his vertical lathe in the garage had stripped the serial numbers and made them all untraceable. A few probably had some crime attached to them, but Paul had no choice in the matter. Reputable dealers were not an option. Sam preferred 9mm automatics, so pistol choices were plentiful. Sam’s experience and some books bought at the local army surplus stores had solved the explosive device problem. In the movies everyone had sexy plastic explosives with digital detonators so the crowd could see just how close the hero was to death when he defused the thing. Paul laughed. The dynamite combined with some Wal-Mart wire and a few items from the local hobby shop and they did just fine. No glamour, but then there would be no cameras rolling when they used it.

  The house was now fully involved. The family was out, so it was now a “Surround and Drown” as the fireman liked to call it. Too bad for the family; the area the fire was in was not a rich one and he hoped they had good insurance. The fish was still not interested; his world did not know fire.

  Paul swiveled his chair to reach his laptop. The laptop was always close, and never plugged into the Internet. After booting it up and several layers of security, he saw the list of all assets obtained for the projected jobs. They had enough for potentially ten. But that was up to Sam. Originally the list was thirty, but Sam knew they would never last that long. The list had been chopped to twenty, and then to ten. Starting where they really wanted would have been too personal, so they picked the mark that would cause a good media draw and help get the
letter out.

  The letter. Paul punched it up and read it again. They had gone through several drafts and argued over the content. Paul wanted to be more threatening, while Sam had wanted to spell out the reasoning in more detail. They had finally decided on a wording that appeared intelligent, yet irrational, threatening, but not crazy, but above all, serious and determined. They hoped the FBI experts did not see through them.

  Paul looked over the plans and tried to find holes. Any contingency that had not been addressed. Time was not on their side, and they could not afford any mistakes. An hour later he sat back and looked at the fish. The bowl sat next to the pile of medications that had gone untouched. The firemen were going home.

  —FOUR—

  The state of Arkansas holds 13,084 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 8,766 are repeat offenders.

  The Letter

  Jack Randall

  FBI Hoover Building

  935 Pennsylvania Ave., NW

  Washington DC 20535-0001

  The American justice system has failed myself and all of America with its endless loopholes and technicalities. The system shows no sign of change or a willingness to do so. The lawyers and their politicians have repeatedly corrupted the legal world to aid the criminal in his goals, allowing him to bend the laws in his favor. The system has no sense of itself. The goal of the lawyer is no longer to see justice prevail, or to make the punishment fit the crime. The plea bargain, reduced sentencing, and early release have become the norm. Criminals who are jailed learn from their fellow criminals how to manipulate the courts to a standstill with no formal legal training. This costs the victims’ closure, and the taxpayers millions. Murderers go free. Drugs and lawlessness rule our communities. Prisons have become educational institutes that produce better, smarter criminals. Death penalty recipients take over a decade to receive their sentence. The media broadcast the news daily, and more criminals see the fruits of crime. The risk has become minimal for the criminal in America, and the public suffers.

  No more.

  Let this letter serve as a warning. If you are guilty and the courts fail the public, we will find you. If you manipulate the system to benefit the criminal, we will find you. If you work within the system and fail your profession, we will be there. We possess the skills. We have acquired the means. We have the will to act where others have failed. Examples will be made. Change must come.

  —FIVE—

  The state of California holds 164,487 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 110,206 are repeat offenders.

  I should have kept Syd here, Jack thought.

  The scene of the shooting was one of the strangest Jack had seen. It was also scary; scary in the fact that Jack’s instinct about the skill of the shooter was confirmed within minutes of his arrival. Jack stood where the shooter had lain, and looked toward the intersection. Two hundred yards through some cypress and palm trees with the usual scrub brush. The outline of the shooter’s body was evident in the weeds. Jack could make out the impression of the man’s elbows. See the log that had served as a rest for the rifle, the boot marks. The man had left minimal damage to the site despite having been there for some time; a cool customer. The man had endured heat, bugs, thirst, and the chance of discovery to get his shot. Jack took up a prone position behind the sniper’s hide and looked toward the intersection again. No brush had been cleared as far as he could see. Some branches had been broken by the fire crew on their approach, but nothing had been moved to clear the shot. Jack rose to his feet and looked again.

  “Hey, Chief?” Jack said over his shoulder.

  “Yeah?”

  “Could you have one of your guys picture that stake with the pink ribbon on it and bag it up for me?”

  “That construction stake, sure. What the hell for?” Chief Sanchez was watching the young bureau man with some amusement. He hadn’t seen a man in a suit lay in the dirt like that before.

  “It’s called a tell. Snipers use them to gauge the wind at the target,” Jack replied. “But see if it belongs to the clearing crew just in case.”

  “You got it.” The Chief turned and pointed to the closest deputy, who picked up his radio.

  After another look around, Jack turned and walked indirectly to the site of the fire. The Chief followed, giving him a running commentary.

  “The deputy responding to the 911 called in the fire soon after arriving. Once the Lieutenant saw the rifle and the envelope, he sent his people out and used the CO2 canister to put it out. Afraid there isn’t much left. Our perp used what looks like a gallon of gas to get it started. Besides the rifle, there appears to be some clothes, a gallon milk jug, and maybe a hat. The father of the boy claims to have heard two shots, kinda muffled, just before the fireman arrived; no one to confirm that, I’m afraid. Tracks lead out that way to the side street and disappear. No witnesses yet.”

  “Thanks, Chief, tell that L-T that was some smart thinking with the CO2, may have saved us some evidence not using the chemical extinguisher,” Jack said.

  “Will do. His boss is on vacation. Gonna be pissed he missed all the fun.”

  Jack knelt by the fire and examined the rifle. He recognized the expensive Remington despite the damage from the fire. The stock was charred and split. The optics of the scope had shattered. Jack could see the tooling marks that now made up the spot were the serial numbers used to be. Not much hope of any fibers or prints. The clothing was much the same. It would all go to the lab anyway. Maybe Sydney and her little band of magicians could find something.

  “Must have been a hot fire to bend that barrel like that,” the Chief’s deputy commented.

  Bend the barrel? Jack straightened up and looked at the barrel again. Taking a step around the fire, he could now see the last few inches of the barrel possessed a slight bend. Jack looked around the area. Off to one side there was a large rock with a considerable crack in it. He walked over to it and shined his flashlight into the crack. Some fresh looking scratches in the rock showed about halfway down. Jack stood and walked back to the fire.

  “See these marks on the barrel? No fire bent that. Our shooter bent it in that rock over there,” Jack said.

  “Why?”

  “So it’s now unusable. No way to match it with any slugs fired,” The Chief lectured his deputy. “How about the shell casings?”

  “We can match them to the chamber of the gun providing our boy didn’t destroy it, too,” Jack replied. “Chief?” Jack motioned for the Chief to follow.

  “First, I’d like to say that you and your men have done a nice piece of work here. Good preservation of the scene. But there’s one thing I’m really concerned about.”

  “The letter,” Sanchez said.

  “Exactly, from the looks of things here, you and I both know this guy is serious and no amateur at what he does. If that letter leaks to the press, catching this guy will only get harder. The press will only make his crusade a public one, and that’s exactly what he wants. The more press he gets, the more bodies we’re likely to see. I need you to put a thumb on your men and I mean hard. Somebody tells a wife or girlfriend, or lets it slip down at the bar, and it’s all over the papers. Tell them anyone who leaks this I intend to go after with a federal vengeance. Will your boys play?” Jack gave the Chief his hardest look.

  “If they want to keep working for me they will,” the Chief replied. “Plenty of people waiting in line for their job here in this little burb. Case you didn’t notice, we like it kinda quiet here. The sooner the reporters leave, the sooner the phone calls to the station stop.”

  “Sounds good. Who else knows about the letter besides you and your crew?”

  “Just that Lieutenant and a couple of his boys. The fact that it exists; not the contents.”

  “Okay, can you talk to him and his men for me?”

  “I think I can get the word across.” The Chief smiled. He was a good ten years senior to the bureau man, but the man was tactful, and had shown he knew
his job. The Chief had to respect that. The fact that he asked Sanchez to deliver the no-leaks lecture, instead of doing it himself, showed some professional courtesy. Sanchez decided he’d really lay it to the boys hard. He suddenly didn’t want to let this man down.

  * * *

  Sydney smiled at the men around the car as she walked into the garage. What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this—it was on all their faces. Something she was probably never going to get used to.

  “Sydney Lewis?” A tall skinny blond man with an FBI badge on his belt walked forward and stretched out a gloved hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Mel Dexter, Orlando office. Mr. Deacon said you were coming. Good to know he has such faith in me.”

  Sydney started to reply, but the goofy grin on his face told her he was just joking. She grabbed the hand and gave it a shake. “Thanks, actually I was hoping you could work with me on this. Are you very busy down here?”

  “A few things pending, but I think we can make some room for you. I have the lab standing by to receive things; so far it’s been a straightforward mess.”

  Mel turned to the car that T. Addicot had been in, and his demeanor went from jokester to professional with one word.

  “Up to now we have a basic rifle wound to the head. Bullet entered through the open driver’s side window and struck the victim just behind the left ear. It then traversed the base of the skull and blew clean through the brain stem before exiting out the right ear. It then struck the driver’s nine-iron that was lying in the passenger seat, and left the car by way of the passenger side windshield. Doesn’t get any quicker than that. Your shooter is a surgeon.”

  “Nine-iron, huh?”

  “Yup. Nice new set of Pings on the passenger side. Evidently one of the drawbacks of the new Mercedes is a lack of trunk space, must be easier to just park them up front.”