by Randall Wood
Mooky was sent for the car.
Sam quickly packed the tripod and laser in the golf bag. Slinging it and his carry-on bag over his shoulders, he left the room for the elevator. The ride down was agonizingly slow, but Sam walked casually to his rental car. After loading the bags in the trunk, he transferred the gym bag with the three radios into the passenger seat. He flipped on the directional radio as he pulled out onto Tropicana Avenue. The signal changed aspect as he passed the MGM. He was ahead of Profit and his boys and found a parking spot in front of a dry cleaner where he could wait. When the signal of the tracer began growing stronger, he knew Profit was on his way. As the car appeared from the west, Sam switched off one radio and switched on another. He let the car pass before pulling out behind it. He checked the plate number against the one he had memorized the night at the strip club. It was the right car. He stayed behind them until they were close to the construction zone. Accelerating past, he caught a glimpse of the man himself dozing in the passenger seat. Sam preceded them into the one-lane traffic and slowed to a pace slower than the car in front of him. As he watched the gap between himself and the car in front widen, he noticed a dump-truck had fallen in behind Profit’s car in his mirror. Good. Sam looked down at the frequency checker in his passenger seat. Nothing. With another glance at the traffic behind him, he powered on the RC radio. Right about now.
Sam accelerated quickly to widen the gap. Mooky was hung over and a little slow, but he soon sped up to follow. The dump truck did not have the gears to keep pace, and there was soon a sizable gap between all three cars. When the gap reached about 40 meters, Sam advanced the throttle stick on the remote. Another 10 meters...
Sam looked in his mirror and kicked the rudder stick to the right full.
* * *
Hector had been driving this dump-truck for three years. Vegas was growing at a record pace and he was earning a good living. Hauling dirt from site to site was boring, but it paid well. This was his last run before lunch, and he was hungry.
He forgot about his stomach when the black car he had been admiring in front of him exploded and began grinding against the concrete barrier. He barely managed to get his truck stopped before crashing into the damn thing. He sat and stared for a moment before the burning gasoline began creeping toward his truck. He pulled off over the drop between two barrels and parked thirty yards past the car to get out of the thick black smoke pouring from the wreck. After getting out his small fire extinguisher, he looked back at the car. It was fully engulfed. He threw the tiny red bottle back in the cab and reached for his dispatch radio.
* * *
Three sticks were enough, more than enough, Sam thought as he sped on to the airport. The car had literally left the ground and impacted the wall before it landed and began carving a groove in the concrete. Hell of a fire, too. Sam had not really expected a fire. He had been told that was movie stuff. This car was definitely burning though. Bonus. Sam smiled as he pulled into the rental lot. Nobody could have survived that. Profit was history. Sam re-packed his gym bag. After turning in his rental car, he found a large locker in the terminal. He stowed his bags, except for the carry-on, and wandered down the terminal until he found a bar with TVs hanging from the ceiling. Halfway into a victory drink he saw an aerial view of the burning car being hosed down by firemen. The paramedics were standing off to one side. They didn’t even have their equipment out. The talking head rambled on for a few minutes saying nothing but speculation. Sam looked around the bar before pulling out his cell phone.
“Hey?”
“How’s it going?” Paul asked cautiously.
“Shitty. You?”
“Same.”
“Watching TV?”
“No, why?”
“Maybe you should. Call you later.”
“Right.”
Sam finished his second drink, left a few bills on the bar, and walked back to the locker. After retrieving his bags, he made his way to the rental car section. Using a second set of identification papers, he was soon on his way in a new Jeep Cherokee back toward the Strip. He took an alternate route this time, traffic was still backed up on Tropicana. He stopped at a mini-mall parking lot to drop four envelopes in the mailbox. One was addressed to Profit at his room at the MGM Grand. Attn: Jack Randall was printed at the bottom in plain block letters. The other three went to newspapers, including one addressed to a reporter at the Orlando Sentinel. He decided to stay at Caesar’s Palace. He liked the high traffic.
After checking in, Sam watched TV coverage of the scene for as long as he could. The coffee soon wore off, and he fell asleep. His body would keep him there until the next morning.
* * *
Jack spent Sunday afternoon with his wife. They had enjoyed a late breakfast out, and were now driving toward the shore for some time away. Jack tried to listen as his wife went on about somebody’s new house and who they had hired to decorate it, but his thoughts kept returning to the case. The boss had agreed with him about the skill of the shooter, and his theory on the letter. Deacon had promised him a full crew, and one of the new Gulfstream jets the bureau had obtained. A joint operation with the DEA had netted some big names in the drug trade, and a few jets were seized. They now had a small fleet. They were even nicer than his father’s company jet, which he still had access to but never used. The pieces were in place, all they were doing now was waiting.
They were only ten miles from their goal when his pager began beeping. His wife’s happy face immediately changed to one of disgust. He twisted around and pulled the seat belt up so he could read it without taking it off his belt. 888. Report for a mission.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said.
“Me, too,” Debra replied. “Are we ever going to have any time, Jack?”
“I’m trying, honey, it’s just the way it is. The bad guys pick the time table. You know I can’t control that.” He swung the car into a parking lot to turn around.
“You owe us some time, Jack, you promised.”
“I know.”
Debra turned and rested her head against the window. Jack picked up the cell phone.
* * *
Sydney was stretched out on her leather couch in the dungeon. She had awakened in the same spot five hours ago, and gone down to the gym to change. A few miles might clear her head so she had changed into her running shoes. The run had only postponed the inevitable. Now showered and fed, she was refreshed and back in the office, her mind still on the case. She eyeballed the stack of paper on her desk. Should she go through it again?
She was just dozing off when a strange noise woke her. A buzzing-rattle. It stopped. She sat up and looked around. It started again. She got up and walked to her desk. Behind the mountain of paper, her pager was trying to walk off the desk. She snatched it up and looked at the number. 888. Shit. She was just reaching for the phone when it rang.
“Lewis?”
“Syd, it’s Jack. Thought I might find you there. Our shooter is at it again. Only this time he’s blowing them up. We’re going to Vegas. The car that blew up there yesterday has been claimed by our guy. I want you and your crew ready to go as soon as possible. Same departure point. How long do you need?”
“An hour?” She hoped.
“Take an hour and a half; I’m driving in from the beach. Have somebody grab my jump-bag out of my office, will you? I’ll meet you on the tarmac.”
“Okay, Jack, anything else?” She was already scribbling out a list.
“No, I’m sure I’ll think of something as soon as I hang up, but just get your people ready for now. I’ll see you in about an hour.”
“Okay,” she told a dead phone. He had already hung up. A car blew up in Las Vegas yesterday?
* * *
Fifteen minutes later she was going over the equipment with her crew. She had her print kit out and was inventorying the contents.
First her powders. She carried the normal black, gray and white plus a couple of exotics; co
lors she found to work better on certain materials and surfaces. A red and an orange/yellow shade she found worked best on fiberglass. Then there were the fluorescents. They were used for difficult or multicolored surfaces. A fluorescent powder only showed results under ALS (Alternative Light Source) or ultraviolet light. Depending on which she was using, she would need some special goggles to go with them. She confirmed the lights were in their cases and stowed properly. Under the fluorescent powders were the magnetic powders, they required special brushes and wands.
Lifting tape. She had several sizes and types. These were usually wide and had low-tack adhesive strips that were not effected by oils and most chemicals. Based on the information they had so far, she decided to double her inventory. Sydney preferred to use tape that had the card and tape combined into one unit. Since black was the color most often used, she had mostly white cards. She was always careful to take cards for every color, just in case.
Next were the rubber lifters. They worked well at pulling prints from uneven or curved surfaces. Silly Putty, it was better than tape. The problem was the print was then shown in reverse. So the print would then have to be re-lifted or photographed, and then flipped back to its original orientation. What they needed was a transparent lifter they always joked. Such an item would be impossible.
Brushes. Prints were delicate and required a gentle hand. Sydney was picky about her brushes. She checked them all—fiberglass, feather, natural bristle. She needed a new camel hair, but there was no time. The Las Vegas crew was headed by an old classmate. She would steal one from her.
Printing ink. Although she was sure the deceased had been printed already, she still inspected her rollers and made sure she had plenty of standard ten-finger cards.
She next cracked her camera cases. She had four. One a special print camera, the second a standard 35 millimeter with all the bells and whistles, the third was a high resolution digital that she had grown to love and the fourth her trusty Polaroid. All had new batteries, extra film or memory cards. Since the scene had been worked already, and the vehicle and bodies all removed, she elected to leave the video camera behind. The plane could only hold so much.
She had thrown some Petri dishes in the bag last week when they returned from Florida. She placed those over items or prints she couldn’t move yet, but were threatened by the elements. They also worked to keep people from stepping in the wrong spots. She threw some rubber bands around them to keep her kit tidy.
The rest of the box contained casting and molding supplies, mixing containers and distilled water. A small man’s shaving kit held her tweezers, chopsticks and other manipulating tools. She checked her iodine, silver nitrate, rulers, Sharpies, protractors, sketching materials, numbering markers and another small bag holding her cyano products. These were chemical print-developers that they used to fume the prints. Usually she used them in the lab, but every once in a while it was necessary to do it on scene. She also carried the portable containment unit.
The next bag contained items she hoped she never had to use. Her PPE, or Personal Protective Equipment: a one piece zip-up suit with a hood and built-in booties. It was made by Dupont out of Tyvec. The same stuff they used to wrap houses in to windproof them. Worn with a mask and gloves, it would protect her if she had to deal with any hazardous materials at a crime scene. It also made her look like a cross between the Pillsbury Dough Boy and the Michelin Man. She hated the thing and felt like she sweated off twenty pounds every time she wore it.
Next came her flashlights. The regular one she always had on her belt with UV, red, and blue lenses. These she kept in a roll-up kit she had bought at Sears that was originally designed for a set of wrenches. She also loaded her personal headlamp, something the bureau did not supply.
Her trace evidence kit was next. She raised her evidence vacuum over her head to keep it clean as possible and powered it on. The batteries were good and she had extras. The filters were there and still sealed. She gently shook a new box of slides. Everything sounded intact. The envelopes, bindle paper, bottles, paper bags, plastic bags and boxes had all been restocked. Another bag revealed a variety of cutting implements: a saw, several knives, pairs of scissors and a small electric drill.
The only thing she didn’t open was the file box containing the forms. They had forms for everything. She had gotten tired of worrying about forms, and just obtained a box that would hold enough for fifty cases, one less worry.
“Syd?”
She looked up. The rest of her team had been watching for ten minutes.
“Everybody ready?” She got several nods. “Let’s roll.” She slammed the back gate on the Suburban and hopped into the passenger seat. It was about twenty minutes to the airfield.
—THIRTEEN—
The state of Illinois holds 43,418 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 29,090 are repeat offenders.
“What are you thinking?”
Jack looked at Sydney from across the cabin. He had just split up the assignments to his crew and they all had their faces buried in paper. She had that pouty look on her face that she unconsciously adopted when she was puzzled by what she was reading. She had a pile of photographs from the scene in her lap, and was now looking at a map.
Sydney looked up at him and screwed her mouth into a frown.
“I can’t really say for sure, but I think your professional shooter isn’t a professional bomber.”
Jack sat up. “Why do you say that?”
“I’m looking at this.” She held out a preliminary report from the Vegas office. “It’s a list of the bomb material found at the site so far. It shows batteries, wire, and some electronics that they traced to a commercial radio control unit. Servos used for model planes. The explosive is C-3 H-5 O-3, that’s regular old dynamite, sold at hundreds of locations in that part of the country to anyone with a valid driver’s license. So far nothing jumps out at me. The hard part of bombing is obtaining the materials, not making it. There are instructions all over the internet. This one shows signs of being homemade and fairly crude.”
“So what’s the problem?” Jack did not see where she was going with this.
“This.” She held up the map. “Bombers are like arsonists, or people who tamper with over-the-counter drugs. They’re basically indiscriminate killers. Even if they’re going after a specific target like our boy is, they’re usually willing to include unknown numbers of bystanders to reach their goal.”
Jack was still confused. “Well, there were three other people in the car.”
“True, but look at it this way. Our guy had to have placed the bomb sometime before he triggered it, maybe a day, maybe a week, right? So this bomb is what we call a command detonated device. He triggered it from a remote location exactly when and where he wanted it to blow. Did the hotel cameras catch anything involving the car?”
“Hotel security showed the car was parked in its VIP section and was under camera surveillance the whole time it was there. Vegas P.D. reviewed the tapes. Nobody, outside valets and the victim’s people, were seen near it from the time they checked in. The car did leave the garage at the MGM on several occasions.” Jack searched for the printout. “Says once Thursday night, once Friday morning, and again Friday night after the fight. Plus the final drive to the airport. That’s all the hotel log says. Why?”
“Let’s assume for a moment that our guy had the bomb in place for a few days prior to the fight. He had to have his target under some type of surveillance so he knew when to trigger. I mean look at this. The report says the bomb was under the passenger seat and his crew says he always sat up front, he didn’t like riding in the back. The bomber knew just where to place it.”
Jack scoffed. “Like it mattered, Syd. The whole car was destroyed.”
“Exactly, that’s the other thing that makes me think he’s not a professional bomber. He used too much explosive. If he was more familiar with what he was doing, he would know that placement would not be a factor with the amount
he was using.” Sydney searched through the stack of documents in front of her. Larry put down his notebook and listened from across the plane.
“Look at this.” Sydney was putting her argument together as she spoke. “The lab estimates he used three to four sticks of dynamite, More than enough. But what really gets me is this.” She held up an aerial photo of the bomb site. “The site our bomber used was a construction site; vacant land on one side, a concrete barrier on the other, a boulevard with the nearest traffic separated by the construction. The truck driver says the car was a good fifty yards in front of him when it blew. He doesn’t remember any cars in front of the victim’s. Plus the bomber did it on a Saturday morning, one of the lightest traffic days, and no road workers present. I think our bomber has a conscience. I think he was unsure of the strength of his device, so he plants it under his target and chooses this spot to detonate to prevent bystanders from being hurt.”
The plane fell silent as they all looked for holes in her theory. Jack couldn’t see any, and he had to admit that she might be right. His thoughts were interrupted by the fax machine. Larry stretched out his body to reach for the paper and promptly spilled coffee on his pants. He read as he dabbed at the spill.
Jack looked from the map to the photos and the lab report. “If you’re right, our guy had to be watching from somewhere. The hotels and casinos are full of cameras; somebody has a picture of this guy. Larry, call the Vegas P.D. and see if they can pull any tape of our guys gambling. Ask his crew where they played and get film from those places too. Start with the MGM. Oh yeah, pull the fight tapes, too. Maybe our guy was there. Larry?”
Jack looked up at Larry. He was reading the fax with a frown.
“You’re not gonna like this, Jack.” Larry held out the printout.
Jack took it and examined the cover page. It was from the Documents Department at FBI headquarters. He slowly read the second page and sat back with a sigh.
“What is it, Jack?” Sydney asked.
“Our guy left the same message as he did in Florida.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“He didn’t copy it on a machine as we first thought. He wrote it all out again by hand. Documents just proved that it’s the same writer.” Jack shook his head. If it was in admiration or disgust, they couldn’t tell.
