by Randall Wood
* * *
The Home Depot, Paul’s favorite store, Sam remembered. He had spent every Christmas and birthday shopping here for his brother-in-law. Sam had to admit he enjoyed a trip there himself. It was a toy store for the adult American male, a place where the Tim Taylors of the world could indulge themselves. He walked with his cart out ahead of him, and nodded at the staff as he made his way across the concrete floor. He was sure he could quickly get everything on the list in his head. If Paul was here he could have told him what aisle each item was in from memory. Sam wandered toward the lighting department. He needed to see if something would fit as he hoped, or else come up with a new idea.
In the light aisle he discovered a large selection of fluorescent light bulbs. He found a package of eight that were just the right length for what he needed. They were in cardboard sleeves and shrink-wrapped with plastic. He carefully placed two cases in his cart. Now, with a game plan, Sam proceeded to acquire the remaining items on his mental list: a clipboard, a hard hat, black Magic Markers, a small stencil set, a pair of safety glasses and a glass cutter. He chose a tool box from a large selection and tried on a carpenter’s apron. Two bottles of Super Glue, black spray paint, a pair of gloves, a hammer and screwdriver, a razor knife, tape measure, a suction cup and several small bells went into the cart. He topped off the list with the ultimate tool—a roll of duct tape.
His next stop was a Wal-Mart. Here, he purchased a pair of jeans, T-shirt and flannel work shirt. He then found a pair of work boots that fit. When he paid, he puzzled the girl at the checkout by asking for a roll of pennies.
Back at his hotel room, Sam first pulled out the Super Glue. He had noticed that his last coat was flaking off. After removing the old coat from his fingers with a bottle of nail polish remover, he carefully applied a new coat. He then stepped out on the balcony for a few minutes to escape the fumes. They tended to set his stomach off. As he looked out over the city he fought the urge to wave his hands like his wife used to when she was applying nail polish. He always thought she looked silly.
When the glue was dry, he pulled out his legal pad and taped his range card on the mirror next to the map of the downtown area. As he unpacked his purchases, he consulted the map and drawing, committing them to memory. He next pulled the rifles from under the bed. After some careful measuring, he made a series of marks on the bulbs. Taking them into the bathtub, he scored the glass with the cutter. With the safety glasses on, he broke the bulbs as gently as he could. Some shattered regardless of the scoring, but enough survived to accomplish his goal. With sixteen intact ends, Sam stacked them to fit the box they came in, and bound them with the duct tape. He carefully taped one set in the end of the box. He then dropped a hotel towel in and followed that with the rifle. Another towel and he carefully slid the bulb ends into the box. Since the box did not come with a closed end, this was necessary. Sam hoisted the assembly to his shoulder and scrutinized himself in the mirror. Looked good. Even better with the bulb ends showing. Light bulbs were harmless and everyone knew what they looked like. If he encountered anyone entering the building, he should have no problems with his cover story.
He packed the rest of the equipment he needed in the toolbox. The clothes he laid on the adjoining bed. He was ready. He turned on the TV to catch the local news. The third story was the Ping trial. Sam was treated to some previous footage of Ping arriving at the courthouse. He watched him emerge from the Sheriff’s Department car with an officer on each side. Ping was in handcuffs and wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. Sam knew he was allowed to change into his suit and tie after arriving for his court appearance. He looked bulky, obviously wearing a bullet-proof vest. A protester blocked the camera temporarily with a sign. A moderate sized crowd could be expected every day Ping was on trial. Sam watched intently as Ping walked up the steps with an officer on both sides and into the courthouse. He turned to look back at the crowd, and the picture froze on his face. Sam made quick notes on a few things he had seen. He looked back at the screen and caught Ping’s face one more time before the story changed.
The glasses were new, big lenses with thick black frames.
* * *
At 6 a.m., the day was started at the county prison where Leonard Ping currently resided.
“Time to go, Leonard.”
Officer Leo Lehman stood outside the cell, and watched him take his time putting his shoes on. Leo was a fifty-year-old veteran of the police force, and was spending his last days before retirement at the jail. His wife had convinced him that it was safer than the streets. He had tried to tell her that her view was wrong. It was the other way around. Leo had been shot at three times, and no amount of talking could convince her otherwise. He had finally given in. Now he spent his days shuttling this scumbag back and forth to court, a fine way to spend his last two years. The fact that they shared a name just made it worse.
Ping ignored the officer and took his time, first tying his shoes and then shuffling through some papers. Anything to delay the inevitable. Leo watched this act as he had several times, finally tapping his cuffs on the bars to move Ping along. Ping obediently stuck his hands through the opening, and Leo snapped the cuffs in place. Ping said nothing as his cell opened after a yell from Leo, and he stepped out into the corridor. As Leo walked him toward the exit, Ping’s fellow inmates could not resist some catcalls.
“Hey-Hey Leonard, another day closer, huh?”
“Ping-Pong! Give ’em hell, boy.”
“Don’t share needles, Ping, you might get AIDS!”
“The big sleep coming your way, pudgy, you better be digging another tunnel!”
Leo watched Ping shuffle down the block with his eyes on the floor. He knew the taunting bothered Ping. No matter how many times he walked the block, he would see Ping tense as he passed the other cells. Soon the sweat stains would show. Leo took great satisfaction in this.
All his years in law enforcement had given Leo a remarkable ability to read people. He was one of the few who saw both versions of Leonard Ping. He saw the public version, an act that gave Ping the aura of a small, harmless man driven by inner demons. A flawed man who needed professional help, not the death penalty. In the courtroom he claimed to have no recollection of his deeds, not even when shown video tapes of him with the victims. He stared off into space at the hearings, and made people repeat their questions to get his attention. He often mumbled his answers and talked to himself when the cameras were on. It was hard work being the public Leonard Ping.
Leo knew the truth. He got to see the real Leonard Ping, the same as the other inmates. Leonard was scared, afraid of death and willing to do anything to avoid it. It was the only thing on his mind every waking moment. Ping studied hard in the prison library, and had used every legal tactic he could to buy himself more time. He had managed to delay his trial date repeatedly, but he was now running out of loopholes, and this made the fear manifest itself tenfold.
Even now Leo could see his mind racing, looking for another way to keep death from being scheduled. For a man who had visited death on twelve people, Ping was now living the nightmare they had endured. The satisfaction Leo felt knowing this was the only thing that made the job bearable.
They paused in the holding cell, and Ping’s legs were placed in irons before his wrists were freed to allow the donning of the vest. The orange jumpsuit was then pulled back up and the handcuffs reapplied. Ping would now sit for around an hour until it was time to leave for the courthouse. Leo pulled the bars shut with a loud clang that startled Ping. Leo smiled as he left the man alone with his fear.
* * *
While Leonard contemplated his fate in the holding cell, Sam walked down the street with his package over one shoulder, and the toolbox in the other hand. After watching the broadcast with Ping’s face last night, he had continued his preparations. On his head he wore the hard hat that now read Supervisor across the front and sported a few scrapes and dents to simulate past use. The tool belt was in
place and rubbing uncomfortably against his hips. The boots were likewise assaulting his feet, but he’d had no time to break them in. He had spent some time last night scuffing them in the hotel parking lot and they now looked the part. The shirt had been wadded up in a ball all night and was now adequately rumpled. As he neared the building, he slowed to check the scaffolding for workers. None were apparent at this early hour. Sam approached the front door as a young man in a suit and tie exited the protective walkway.
“Let me get that for you,” the man offered as he reached for the door.
“Thanks,” Sam replied. They both entered the lobby, and the young man made for the elevator. Sam reluctantly got on with him.
“Floor?”
“Four please.”
“No problem.” After pushing the button the man stuck his nose in his Wall Street Journal. Sam looked him over. He was young, and wearing a nice, but not too expensive suit, obviously the first to arrive for the day. Polite, too, probably a paralegal or a new associate putting in the long hours, too new to have the attitude yet. The car stopped on the second floor, and with a nod the man got off. Sam stepped out into a dark hallway on the forth floor and quickly toured the rooms. Nobody had arrived yet. He took the stairs to the fifth floor and repeated his search. He noted no footprints in the dust since his visit yesterday. Good. He moved to the large room that had windows on the front and sides of the building. The future office of the head cheese had an excellent view of the entire downtown square.
“This will do just fine,” Sam told himself.
He carefully leaned his package against the wall and opened the toolbox. After extracting some items, he returned to the stairwell and descended to the ground floor. Working quickly, Sam placed pennies in the crack of the door on top of the latch. He added them until the space had been filled completely. This was actually a trick that he had picked up years ago in college. It was a way to shut someone in their room that had a door that opened into the room. The pennies wedged the door shut, not allowing it to be opened. One could usually shake the door until the pennies dislodged, and, in the process, provide entertainment for the rest of the dorm. Sam added a twist on this trick by coating the whole mess with Super Glue once he was done. Anyone using the door would decide that the ancient door fixture had jammed and simply find another exit. He then turned and tried the fire exit. It opened with a push. The magnet was still in place. The back door had been his first choice of entry, until he realized anyone seeing him using it would immediately know something was wrong. The outside of the door did not have a handle, and it was visible from the surrounding building’s windows. He had purchased the suction cup in order to have something to pull with if the front entrance was not an option. After confirming that the alley was unobstructed, he turned back to the interior door and taped a bell to the upper part. If anyone forced the door he should have some warning. After ascending the steps and repeating the penny and bell trick to each door, he found himself back on the fifth floor. After propping the door open, he set about building his shooting platform. From the area he gathered a pair of saw horses and several sheets of drywall. He assembled a table as far back in the room from the window as possible. On the table he placed two bags of mortar mix that had been left by the window. These, he punched and shaped into a form that would accept the rifle. He pulled up a bucket of drywall compound to serve as a seat and took up a shooting position without the rifle. The plastic hanging from the window would have to be trimmed back and he quickly accomplished this with the razor knife. Before he put the knife away he sliced open the cardboard tube which held the rifle and laid it on the table. From the tool box he extracted a small spotting scope and placed it next to the rifle. The range card came next and Sam made updates based on what the scope told him. He looked around his perch. He could not walk on the noisy floor once the workers arrived. Everything was in place. His exit route had no obstacles. He did not have to urinate. He had scope adjustments to make, but needed the sun to be higher first. There was nothing to do now but wait.
—EIGHTEEN—
The state of Louisiana holds 36,047 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 24,151 are repeat offenders.
Jack sighed and looked around his hotel room. He had sent everyone to bed last night, but had been unable to sleep himself. The sun was coming up now and he was no farther than he was last night. The technicians at the lab had changed shifts, so progress was being made. At least he could take some comfort in that. Every surface of the room was covered in files, printouts and photos. A borrowed laptop allowed him to review the footage from the airport. He tossed a paper detailing the bomb components back on the coffee table and poured himself another cup of coffee from the carafe on the room service tray.
“I have to stop doing this,” he told himself. “My stomach is going to rot away if I keep this up.”
Jack picked up the document that he kept coming back to. The letter. He read it again for the hundredth time. It was version two, but no change in the text. Why was the man so determined to prove it came from the same source? Did he plan on being copied? If so, was he setting this up so he could take out a specific target and blame it on a copycat? Was it just to confuse them? Throw them off to buy some time? Was the letter legitimate in its claim, or was this man simply fed up with the court system and extracting revenge? That narrowed the suspect list, he mused. How many people had been screwed by the justice system? It could be a genuine attempt to get some change. Or was there a personal reason?
Jack forced himself to stop thinking about the theory end of it all and look at what hard facts could be gleaned from the letter. It was well written. No spelling or grammar errors. The speech and pacing leaned toward that of an educated person. It touched on several points to convey its anger. Someone had researched the subject, or knew from firsthand experience the problems with the judicial system.
The part that bothered Jack the most was the use of the word “We” in the second paragraph. “We” obviously pertained to more than one person being involved. Was it two or twenty? Was this an established group that had deviated into murder to press their cause forward? If so, it met the definition of terrorism. Perhaps frustrated members of a reformist or lobbyist group who had decided that changing the system by legitimate means was going too slowly for their taste? That would give reason to the letter even existing. Someone out for revenge would just swing away until he was satisfied or caught and have no real need to send the letters.
The letter also said they had acquired the means. That usually meant money. Based on the two killings so far, Jack had to wonder. The rifles had been expensive, but not to the point of needing a large income to obtain. The victims had been watched, but that was also not very costly. The bomb-making materials added up to a decent amount of money, but again, that was not out of reach of the average middle-class income with a little savings. Yet, they included the statement for a reason. Did they mean they had the funds to continue as long as they wished? Just dropping that in to say money was not a problem? Maybe they had a long list of names? The smaller the organization, the harder it usually was to get funding, unless they had a big backer, or were wealthy themselves. The possibilities were too numerous at this point.
What about the possession of skills line? Jack had no doubts about that. So far he was convinced that the killer was a highly skilled marksman, and at the minimum, a good bomber. While the bomb itself may have been crude, the method of deployment showed a tactical mind at work. Sydney’s insight as to its deployment had been backed up by the local bomb squad leader, a former DOD ordnance disposal man who had been around the block and still had all his fingers. Jack had checked.
This brought him back to another question. A bomber with a conscience was an oxymoron according to Sydney and the behavioral science people. What had she called them, indiscriminate killers? Not enough bystanders were usually the problem for most bombers. Not this guy. He actually had planted a tracer on the car to track it
to the perfect spot. Was that just to make sure he got his man, or was it to prevent collateral damage?
The letter also fit the actions so far. The first victim: Addicot. True, he was guilty of perverting the system, no one was going to dispute that. Through technically he had not broken the law. The shooter had made it clear with his first shot that you did not have to be a convicted criminal to make the list. Profit had been tried several times, but had avoided conviction. Evidently that was also enough to make the list. So what was it exactly that had pissed off this shooter, and possibly his friends, to get them to do this? Most of all, who was next on the list?
