by Randall Wood
“Somewhere to the east, one of those buildings on the left, I think. Kinda echoed around, but I think it came from there. Just one shot.” He looked down at the mess that was once the back of Ping’s head. “Someone couldn’t wait long enough for Leonard to meet the needle.”
“Tragedy,” Leo remarked. He looked up at his fellow cops and smiled. They returned his grin and stood looking at what was left of Leonard Ping as the blood made its way down the stairs.
The cameraman on the street below caught the image with his Nikon. It would be on the front page by that evening.
* * *
Sam allowed himself two seconds of observation before standing and walking to the window in the next room. As he approached it, he was careful not to let himself be seen from the outside. The rifle was now back in the box and taped back up. He gently placed it in the chute and allowed it to fall into the dumpster five stories below. He had hoped for a means of destroying it on site, but unfortunately nothing was available. As the rifle fell, he turned and walked to the stairwell. As he passed the forth floor he could hear excited speech from behind the door. Something in Spanish he couldn’t make out. He quickly descended to the ground floor. As he stepped off the bottom step he was startled by the shaking of the inside door and the ringing of the bells. He could make out a woman on the other side of the glass desperately pulling on the knob. Luckily the pennies held. She saw his shape through the opaque glass.
“Hey, open the door!”
He ignored her and pushed open the fire exit. He could hear the bells ringing on the floors above him as he quickly stepped out into the alley and began walking toward the entrance to the street.
A door on his right suddenly opened and a young woman stepped out. She flinched when she saw Sam. She looked over his clothes and the tool box in his hand and with her hand over her chest calmed herself down.
“Did you hear a gun go off? I could have sworn I did?” she asked.
Sam turned and pointed to the roof of the building he had just left. “Something loud from up there. Not sure what it was. I’m getting out of here just the same.”
“Okay.” The woman looked up at the building as he hoped she would, buying him some time. When she looked back he had already turned and was walking away. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to follow, or go back into her office.
“Laurie, what was that noise?”
The woman turned to see a coworker behind her at the door. “I don’t know. I thought it might be a gun, but I’m not sure.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“That man.” She turned to point. The alley was empty.
—TWENTY—
The state of Maryland holds 23,791 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 15,939 are repeat offenders.
Sam resisted the urge to run. He proceeded down the street at a moderate pace toward his car, weaving in and out of people all on their way to work. The woman in the alley had rattled him. He had not expected her, and as a result of their encounter, someone had seen his face. He couldn’t be sure of how well he had distracted her, but it was enough to allow him to turn away. The quick look might have been enough for a good artist to construct a composite sketch, something that could really hamper his effectiveness.
He turned into the parking garage where he had stowed the rental Jeep earlier that morning. He looked around casually as he approached the vehicle. There were some commuters heading toward the exits at the other end of the ramp, but otherwise he was alone on this level. He reached into the backseat and pulled out a large garbage bag. After another quick look around, he placed the toolbox, clipboard and hard hat into the bag. He then peeled off the shirt, pants and boots he wore and stuffed them into the bag, and replaced them with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. A new pair of running shoes went on after that. Placing a baseball cap on his head along with a new set of sunglasses, he got in and drove for the exit. The attendant didn’t even glance at him as he collected the fee and hit the button to raise the gate. Sam drove out and turned left just in time to pull over for two squad cars rounding the corner. They sped past him without a second look. Sam watched them in his rearview until they disappeared and then proceeded back into traffic.
Ten minutes later Sam was driving through the poorer section of town. Homeless could be seen out foraging for food or the daily bottle. He cruised slowly until he found an alley devoid of people, but containing a few dumpsters. Pulling up to one, he parked out of sight of the street. Reaching for the grocery bag next to him, he exited the Jeep and pulled open the back door. From the grocery bag Sam removed a carton of milk. He emptied the carton into the trash bag and tied the bag tight. With his gloved hands he shook the bag until all the milk had been evenly distributed. Only then did he turn and toss it in the nearest dumpster. With the heat being what it was, the milk would be foul and stinking in a short time, thereby discouraging anyone who may be foraging in the trash. Back behind the wheel, he carefully moved the Jeep back out into the traffic. He had the route to the highway memorized, and was soon driving past the rush hour traffic heading in the opposite direction. He turned on the radio and thumbed the search button, trying to find a local news station but found nothing but commercials and syndicated morning chatter. After the fourth channel of canned laughter, he gave up and pulled out the cell phone.
“Hey it’s me, how’s it going?”
“Shitty, you?” Paul replied.
“The same, my friend, the same. So shitty in fact that number three is done and I am in egress mode. Had to leave the rifle at the scene and had a little problem leaving the building, but other then that it went okay. Is it on the news yet?”
“I just turned on CNN and they got nothing. What do you mean a little problem?”
“Some secretary stepped out into the alley I was using and got a look at me. I covered well enough I think, but she got a look. I had on the hat and sunglasses, so I don’t know how well she saw me. It was only a second or two at best.”
“That’s enough for a general description. They know you’re white. Height and weight. General build. This is bad, Sam.” Sam could hear the edge in Paul’s voice.
“Relax, that’s not enough, and right now they don’t even know if I was the guy. Listen, I’ve sterilized the car and ditched all the gear. I’m on my way back to Vegas to return the rental and fly back. I just wanted to tell you I got away clean, and I’m planning on ditching this phone as soon as we hang up. I’ll be going to the second one after this, okay?”
“All right,” Paul answered. “Just be careful. If I hear them put out a description on you or the car I’ll call you. What color is that damn Jeep anyway?”
“Gray. It’s a new Cherokee Laredo. Needs a bath,” Sam said. “I won’t have cell coverage the whole way, so I’ll check in when I do.”
“Sounds good. You should be back by Wednesday night then, right? Plan on a trip to the clinic when you get back. Think about what you’re gonna tell the doc.”
“Just what I need. Something to look forward to.”
“It just came up on CNN, hold on a second.”
“Well?” Sam pushed after a long silence. “What do they say?”
“Ping’s face down on the steps. Nice head shot. You winged a cop in the leg! He looks okay. He’s talking to the other cops. Lots of people milling around. The cops are grinning. Even the wounded one. They’re taking him away now. There goes the sheet over the body. Lots of gore on the steps. Nobody looks too upset. Hell, the cops are still grinning. Looks like you have some fans. Heads are talking now. Was it a five-story with some construction going on that you used?” Paul asked.
“Yeah, it was perfect, but I had to lock the fire exits to keep my path clear. One guy saw me come in, even held the door for me, but he was more interested in his Wall Street Journal than looking at me. Hardly anybody was in the building when I pulled the trigger. Long shot though, over 700 yards. You sure the cop is okay?” Sam asked.
“Looks okay.
He walked with some help down the steps to the stretcher. You were right on by the pictures. Not even a lot of blood. What about the envelopes?”
“I’m dropping them at the next mailbox I see. I left one on-scene addressed to Jack.”
“Okay, I got the DVR working for you. Get out of there and call me when you can.”
“Will do. Can I bring you anything?”
“How about some sunshine? It’s typical Michigan cloudy and cold here.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Sam hung up the phone and rolled down the windows. As the desert heat rolled through the car, he thought about his next doctor’s visit. He realized that the pain had been minimal these last few days. Maybe the dry desert air was doing him some good.
Five miles later he pulled over for some breakfast at a fast food vendor. He ate in his car in the parking lot. When he was through, he slid the phone into the bag along with the food wrappers. He then picked up a large envelope and carried his items to the curb of the parking lot. There he slid the small envelopes from the large sterile one into a mailbox. The phone in the fast food bag went into the garbage can next to it.
* * *
Jack automatically reached out and felt for the clock radio that adorned his nightstand at home. After a few tries and misses he opened his eyes and realized the noise was coming from his cell phone. He looked around the bed until he located it and thumbed it open. He looked at the incoming number. Deacon.
“Randall,” he managed to get out through his cottonmouth.
“You awake, Jack?” Deacon asked.
“I am now, sir. We were at it all night. I’m afraid I don’t have anything new to report.”
“Forget that for now. Turn on CNN.”
Jack winced at that as he reached for the remote and pushed buttons until he had the right channel.
“Am I looking for what I think I am?” Jack asked.
“You got it. About a half hour ago someone put a bullet in the back of Leonard Ping’s head as he walked up the steps of the courthouse. Locals found the shooter’s position over 700 yards away in a building being remodeled. Also a copy of the letter left on the table he used. Our boy isn’t wasting time is he?”
“That’s one a week for three weeks roughly. I’d say he’s moving to a schedule. I’m getting the story now.” They both fell silent as Jack watched the report.
Damn, Jack thought. This guy is good. The shot of Ping lying on the steps was brief, but Jack could see the shot had been center-mass, right in the head. He watched the cops around him and saw the grins. That was not going to go over well. The press would use that image for the next week. A quick shot of the street with the building in the distance followed until the camera panned back to the reporter giving her account. Jack hit the mute button.
“I guess we’re on our way there, sir. Let me get everybody up and I’ll call you from the plane. Do you have a copy of the letter yet?”
“Documents is going over it right now, Jack, but their initial impression is that it’s the same guy. No word from the papers yet, but we have people at the last three locations waiting. I have the crew here putting it all in a fax for you. You want it to the plane?”
“Yeah, that will speed things up.” Jack shook the pitcher of coffee on the table. Empty. “Do you have a decision on the press statement?”
“I tried, Jack, but they chose to hold the information for now. I’ve been told that you have clearance to give press statements, but don’t reveal the true copy of the letter.” Deacon braced for the response he expected.
“Sir, that’s going to do nothing but blow up in our faces. If the public learns we held information that could have prevented copiers they will crucify us. We need to release it now, not later.”
“I hear what you’re saying, Jack, but the Attorney General stuck his head in and you know the Director can’t convince him to leave out the politics. We’ll keep trying on this end, just be careful when you make any statements.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll call from the plane.”
“Okay, Jack.” Deacon hung up.
Jack looked at the phone for a long time. They were letting him make the statements to the press. If it backfired, he would be their fall guy in the court of public debate. Bad enough he had a case to solve that was moving faster than they could follow, now he was supposed to get the work done and play politics at the same time? More importantly, how could he cover his ass in case the walls came down all around him? He thought about this before he picked up the phone and placed another call.
* * *
Danny was talking to a security guard at the MGM and getting nowhere. The man had a good job. The MGM hired people with experience and then sent them to paramedic school on completion of their training program. If you were going to have a heart attack, a casino in Las Vegas was the place to have it. The man actually smiled at him as he turned down his questions.
Danny finally nodded his head in defeat and turned away. He was considering trying the guards at Caesar’s when his phone rang. He flipped it open and put it to his ear without looking at the screen.
“Danny Drake.”
“Mr. Drake. You know who this is? We spoke at the airport yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“I need you to get some information out for me.”
“I’m listening.”
Jack explained quickly and Danny scribbled furiously in his notebook to keep up.
“I got it. That all?”
“For now. I’m leaving for California in a few minutes. We’ll talk more when I can, Danny.”
“California? Anywhere in particular?”
“Turn on your TV. I’ll see you there.” The connection broke.
What the hell? Danny wondered. He looked around for the nearest bar and made for it. He walked around its perimeter looking at the overhead screens until he saw one showing CNN. He only had to wait a few minutes before he saw the story. He made for his room to pack.
—TWENTY-ONE—
The state of Massachusetts holds 10,232 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 6,855 are repeat offenders.
“Is there an age limit to work for the Bureau?” Sydney asked.
Everyone on the plane looked up from their various piles of paper to give her a quizzical look.
“High or low?” Larry asked.
“Low.”
“I don’t care,” Larry answered with a grin. He was obviously closer to the high end of the scale.
“Why do you ask?” Jack inquired.
“I’m looking at this disc of the crime scene that the Chief’s kid did for us. It’s amazing. He has a full three dimensional graphic of the entire area. I can zoom in and out and change my point of view to whatever I like. I can click on a piece of debris, and the file on that will pop up. There’s a catalog of trace and print evidence. Another of weather reports from the day before the crime to the day of publication. A manufacturer’s blueprint of the car with an exploded isometric. The autopsy report on each body. Another graphic of the bomb before it blew. There’s even an animated video option, but it looks like he ran out of time before he could complete it. I know he looks like he’s twelve, but can we hire him?”
Larry grinned again and looked at Jack. “What do ya say, Jack? Kid’s good and something tells me he would really enjoy working for Sydney.” The Chief’s son had clearly been smitten with her. They had all enjoyed the way he followed her around every chance he had.
“It was certainly entertaining having him around,” Jack played along. “May have to get a note from his mother, though.”
“Very funny, you two, but I’m serious. This is some really good work and I think we should grab him before somebody else does,” Sydney shot back.
“If you’re serious, we can start a background check on him. I wonder what he did that compelled his exit from MIT.? Anyway, let’s worry about that later. Right now we need to look at anything new from this shooting. Who wants to read
the psych profiles?” Jack changed the subject.
“I will.”
Everyone looked at Dave. Always the quiet one, like most Dave had never placed much value in the profiles that the FBI Behavioral Science Department produced. Despite what was seen on TV, the profiles were often way off the mark when the person was caught, or so gray they were not worth looking at. The Maryland sniper case had been so far off that it was an embarrassment to the Bureau. It proclaimed the shooter to be a white male with a mental defect. This had been broadcast on all the networks in hope of the public aiding in the capture. It had turned out to be the opposite—a black father-son team with a well thought out plan. Since then, all cases were provided with two or even three separate profiles in the place of one collaborative effort. While this assured that more theories were heard, they were often very different from one another which frustrated those who had to read them.
“Are you sure, Dave?” Jack was hesitant. Dave was his best detail guy and Jack didn’t want him wasting his time if he wasn’t going to approach it seriously.
“It’s about time I took a turn, Jack. I’ll give it a fair shake,” Dave replied.
“Fine, just keep your report short, and don’t let it interfere with the other stuff on your plate. Everyone else, please give it a quick look. Take it to the bathroom with you or something.” Jack passed the report to Larry who passed it to Dave. “What do we have that’s new?”
“San Diego P.D. says they may have a witness. A secretary in an adjacent building saw a man leaving the area by way of an alley behind the building. White male, middle age, six-foot, two-hundred twenty, wearing worker’s clothing and a tool belt. Also a hard hat and sunglasses. Not much, but they’re working on a sketch. She spoke briefly with him. Good English, no accent.”
“Okay, let’s get that sketch as soon as possible and have it digitized and enhanced by the computer guys. Tell them to run all the options on it, too.”
“Options?” Larry asked.
“The new facial software they have lets you view the face from any angle, change hair and eye color, add beards, glasses, pretty much anything you can think of,” Sydney explained.
“Well, guess I should read the newsletter more often.”
