by Randall Wood
Jack smiled for Larry’s benefit. Larry had admitted to not understanding half of what was in the newsletter the FBI published on any of its new capabilities. Jack kept Larry for his experience and ability to see the whole picture. Something no gadget could replace.
“How about the locals?” he asked, to move them along and save Larry some embarrassment.
“They have all the guys that were present waiting for us. They’ve already been interviewed by the local office. Not much to tell. Ping went down along with one of theirs. Then they heard the shot. That was it. They did find the location quickly. People in the building definitely heard it. They got locked out of the stairwell. I’m not too sure about how. They said something about pennies.”
“Pennies, like in one cent coins?” Sydney asked.
“That’s what they said.” Larry looked at his notes. “I don’t get it either.”
“I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”
“One other thing. We have camera footage from the two stations that were there. Nothing we haven’t seen already on the tube, but we can send it to be analyzed.”
They sat in silence for a minute while Jack thought about their options. They had plenty of manpower on hand. How long did he want to spend on scene? If they stayed too long, his people would tend to get behind on the case; solving one before moving to the next. He had locals for that. It was his job to catch this guy, and in order to do that he had to think about where the shooter was going, and not where he had been. He couldn’t afford to get bogged down in California.
“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. I want to be in and out of there quick. Focus on what will tell you about this guy and where he might be going next. Larry, do your interviews, but focus on description and voice. Sydney, get all the forensic information and send it to the labs immediately. Gather it up and we’ll go over it afterward. Dave, don’t waste time on the victim. I’m sure we can all agree on why he was chosen. Same with Profit, let that all go for now. I want to know who this guy is and what pissed him off. That will tell us where he might be headed next. That’s our job, find him and stop him before he does it again. Any questions?”
He got a lot of heads bobbing but no questions. Good. He glanced at the map on the wall. The little plane symbol was right over southern California. The plane started to lose altitude in preparation for landing.
* * *
An hour later and Jack was looking out the window from the shooter’s position. It brought back memories of a favorite book. Day of the Jackal was a popular read back in sniper school. He could see Sydney in the distance behind the yellow tape surrounding the courthouse steps. He turned back into the room.
Every surface in the room had a coating of volcanic ash in a vain attempt to find a print. Several had been lifted, but none that failed to match those of the work crew. Several smudges and palm prints were found with no fingerprints to go with them. The locals had ventured that the shooter had taped his fingers. Jack had them send everything anyway. He stopped and looked through the stack of photos again. They had been taken by the first team to arrive and showed several footprints in the dust. The foreman had reported that his crew had not been on that floor for at least a week. The prints had to belong to the shooter. He put them in order and saw that the man had entered and walked around no more than necessary. The prints were minimal. He had gone to the window and the trash chute, moved a few items, and that was all. A very cool customer.
He was moving toward the trash chute when he heard a ringing bell. He changed directions to step into the hallway in search of the noise. A young tech saw him and spoke.
“Bells,” she explained. “He taped them to every door.”
“Thanks,” Jack replied before moving past her to the stairwell and descending a flight. He found a team with a Sawzall about to attack a door.
“Hold up a second,” commanded the senior tech as Jack approached.
“You’re sawing the door?”
“See for yourself,” the man offered. “Your shooter put pennies in the door over the latch until the space was full and then glued the whole mess in place. If we pry it out we may loose any fibers stuck in the glue.”
Jack knelt down to see the mess, very crude, but it could be done quietly and quickly, and that was what had been needed. Jack stepped back and waved the tech to continue. The buzz of the Sawzall filled the stairwell as Jack descended to the bottom where he found the FBI special agent in charge of the local office looking at the emergency exit. They had met at the front door earlier.
“Looks like your guy used a magnet to keep the latch from closing, simple but effective. The witness met him right over there, just down the alley.” He pointed. Jack nodded and left the men to their work. He walked to the end of the alley and paused at the sidewalk. He looked both ways up and down the street while curious onlookers looked at him across the yellow tape. He was too deep in thought to notice them.
“What are you thinking?” a voice asked.
He turned to see the agent standing behind him. A man of about fifty, he had been in San Diego for many years. A former bank robbery agent, he had worked his way up the ladder and had the reputation of a serious law enforcement officer.
“Trying to get in the man’s head. Not much luck so far,” Jack answered.
“Always go back to motive. That’s my advice.”
“Yeah, well, despite the letters and what we have so far, all we have is a lot of theory.”
“Well, my team is impressed, might even call it admiration. One of the SWAT guys said it was an impossible shot. What do you think?”
“Seven hundred meters? Long, but not impossible. Don’t get me wrong. This guy is very, very good. Where did he learn to do it? That’s my main question.”
“You’re checking with the military?”
“Yeah, should have a list soon.”
“Could be just what you need,” the man ventured.
Jack looked down the busy street to the courthouse.
“Maybe.”
* * *
Danny let the shutter snap three more times before he stopped the camera. Jack was talking to another agent in the mouth of the alley. He’d been tempted to call him when his plane hit the ground, but the unspoken rule was that Jack called him, not the other way around. He would be patient. Jack needed him for something more. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but time would tell.
He slung the camera over his shoulder and turned to walk to the courthouse. He would get some shots of the blood on the steps to please his editor. He checked his phone as he walked to ensure he had coverage. No messages yet.
—TWENTY-TWO—
The state of Michigan holds 49,358 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 33,069 are repeat offenders.
Sam sat in the bedroom he had shared with his wife. It, like his daughter’s room, had changed very little. Her shoes lay piled on the floor in the closet where all her clothes hung. Earrings and a few watches competed for space among the various items on the bureau. One of her many purses still hung on the doorknob. The master bathroom was no different. Cosmetics and hair care products dominated every available space and surface. Even the shower held remnants of her with a puffball sponge. At least three types of conditioner took up the one small shelf. Sam could not bring himself to remove any of it. He rarely, if ever, slept there. Falling asleep without her was only half as hard as waking up with her not there. So the bed stayed made, and the clutter collected dust. Paul would venture in to search for laundry, but made his visits quickly, and never when Sam was around.
As he looked around the room, he dwelled on items: a picture; the movie stubs from their last trip to the theater sitting on a pile of loose change; the decorative pillows on the bed that he never liked but had obediently moved to the chair and back with every night’s sleep; her alarm clock that he would still reset after every power outage. The book on dogs she had been reading was still on the nightstand. It was her l
atest idea, a dog for Katie. Sam thought Katie was still too young, but his wife had insisted, stating that she was Katie’s age when her father had gotten her and Paul a dog. She had been very happy having the constant companion to play with. They had debated breed and size for weeks. He was first tempted to buy the largest dog he could, picturing it dragging Katie from the water and tearing the legs off imagined pedophiles. He didn’t care if it ate more then he did as long as it kept his little girl safe. His wife had adopted a more levelheaded approach. After some time and debate they had narrowed it down to two choices—Sam leaning toward the German shepherd while she was promoting a border collie. He had been ready to give in that night, but while she was in the shower he had sneaked a look in the book to see what breed she was studying up on. German Shepherd. He decided to hold out for another day and see if he could win.
“Hey, Sam!”
Sam flinched at the sound of his brother-in-law calling from the bottom of the steps. He jumped to his feet and walked quietly to the master bath.
“Yeah?”
“Food,” Paul answered.
“Be right down.”
Sam flushed the toilet so Paul wouldn’t know he had just been sitting and brooding, ran the water in the sink and washed his hands. As he left the room, he bumped the purse hanging on the knob and knocked it to the floor. He stopped and looked at it before picking it up. As he turned to hang it back on the knob, he caught the scent of her perfume from the small bottle she had always kept with her. He inhaled deeply before hanging it up.
“Sam?”
“Coming,” he answered.
He returned to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. Paul wouldn’t see him crying.
Paul looked up as Sam descended the stairs. He noticed that Sam’s color was a little off. Despite the slight tan he had acquired, he had lost his healthy glow. Maybe it was the Michigan weather. Everyone developed that pasty-white look this time of year. The local joke was that it came with the lake-effect snow. Still, he decided he would keep a closer eye on his brother-in-law’s appearance.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” Sam asked as he looked in the fridge.
“For me, a lovely frozen pizza, and for you, a doctor approved gourmet meal of chicken and rice, both very plain and rather bland. No need to thank me, it was my pleasure.”
Sam looked down at the plate on his end of the table. Two plain broiled chicken breasts sat on the plate with about a cup of plain white rice. He looked around the table and found no salt or pepper present. His eyes finally came to rest on Paul’s pizza.
“You have onions on that?”
“No, no, no, you will not be eating any pizza tonight. You have a visit with Dr. Maher bright and early, and I will be able to answer his questions honestly. Besides, it’s my pizza,” Paul replied.
Sam frowned at his plate and again as Paul opened a beer. Paul kept the beer somewhere in the house, but Sam had never been able to find it. Maybe in the garage, no, they would freeze out there. He gave up the thought and sat down with his chicken and rice. Paul was right. His gut could not tolerate pizza anymore. The coffee he had consumed over the past few days was bad enough. He looked at the clock and did some quick math to determine if it was safe eating this. He had learned to put plenty of time between his chemo and his last meal. Hopefully, he wouldn’t see this chicken again tomorrow.
“I almost forgot,” Paul said as he got up. Sam watched him walk to the counter and return with a small plate. As he set it down with a flourish next to Sam’s milk, he explained, “Dessert.”
Sam now had a plate full of pills to complete his meal.
“Very funny. Remind me to hate you later.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Paul returned to his seat, picking up the first slice before his butt hit the cushion. He quickly spit out the first bite as it burned his tongue.
“Now that’s karma!” Sam laughed.
They ate in silence until Sam was done. He nursed a second glass of milk and watched Paul consume his pizza.
“Did you get that thing made I asked for?”
Paul chewed and swallowed quickly before he replied. “Yep, down in the basement. Kind of a challenge for me. I mean, it’s a simple item to make, but there isn’t a lot of room for error, if that makes any sense. Test fired it out in the backyard. Surprised at how well it works, doesn’t sound at all like it does in the movies, but still real quiet. I don’t feel so bad about ruining the pistol now. Just what are your plans for it, anyway? It seems to go against your strong skills.”
“Not real sure right now,” Sam answered. “Sometimes you don’t have the long distance option, so I thought it would be a good idea to have one handy. In the old days, if you had to get close and be quiet you used a knife. That’s kinda messy. This lets me get close, do the deed and walk away clean. DNA and fiber clean anyway. How many did you make?”
Paul stopped with a slice halfway to his mouth. “How many? Just the one. Did you want more than that?” Paul was worried he had missed some instructions.
“Maybe, but not right now. Just thinking that maybe I should have asked for more. Was it hard? Can you do more if we need them?”
“Not that hard, just ate up a lot of time. I destroyed the plans when I was done, but that’s no problem. I remember all the dimensions. Need to buy some more material and fittings though if you want some more. Shop for some pistols, too,” Paul said.
Sam thought about that. The steel and fittings were no problem. People bought them every day. The pistols, however, weren’t an everyday thing. You had to show your face and there was paperwork. Maybe there was a gun show around they could check out. No paperwork, but the feds had been maintaining a presence at them since 9-11, including videotaping the crowd. He would have to think about it more.
“Let’s just hold off for now.”
“Okay,” Paul replied. “You have any thoughts on who’s next?”
“Well you tell me, what’s the schedule look like?” Sam asked.
“Giving you time after your chemo tomorrow, you could make it to the card show or the rally, but probably not both. You may have to blend in at the rally, but the card show shouldn’t be a problem. Everything is in place. Weather is nicer too,” Paul suggested.
“Sure he’s still coming? With the letter in the papers he has to think he’s a target.”
“According to the website he’s still coming. I really have no way of confirming it other than calling and asking. I’ll do that tomorrow.”
“Good,” Sam said. “He should have been first, but he would have been too much of a media draw and the family would have been immediate suspects. They’ve been through enough. He needs to be next, before he leaves the country or something.” Sam swirled the last of his milk around in the glass before draining it.
“I agree,” Paul replied. “At least now you have your long and short game up to par.”
Sam smiled at his brother-in-law’s joke. He shook his head as he got up to do the dishes.
“Did you read any of those books or magazines I got you?” asked Paul. He was still working on his pizza. He punctuated the question with a loud belch.
“I tried,” Sam replied. “I tried about three or four times on the plane but kept falling asleep. How people find sports cards so interesting is beyond me. How did you do it?”
“I haven’t since my teens, but I tell you I’m wishing I still did. Today it’s big money. Some of the cards I have up in the attic are worth some bucks. I need to get them down and store them properly. Worth some money down the road. Maybe I’ll retire young. Think you need to take some with you to fit in better?” He pushed himself and the wheeled chair across the room and handed Sam his pizza plate. He then spun a 180 and propelled himself back to the table and his beer.
Sam thought about that as he washed the plate before making the obvious decision. “No, I think that would just expose me as the fraud that I am. Better to just be a buyer, not a seller. Besides, I wouldn’t want to ruin your ne
st egg.”
Paul worked on his beer for a few minutes as he watched Sam load the dishwasher.
“DVR’s full again.”
Sam looked up at that. “What’s the word from the all-knowing-all-telling media?”
“The usual, Vigilante Killer Stalks Criminals. Sniper Speeds Justice to Victims.” Paul made quotation marks in the air with his greasy fingers. “They paint you as some nut that’s snapped for some reason and is off on a killing spree. A few so-called experts have weighed in. Mostly shrinks or authors on the subject. Did you know you have a deeply troubled mind and are being pushed by a lack of perceived fairness you received from your parents as a child? The guy had thirteen letters after his name, so it must be true.”
Sam smiled. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to work on that. Sometimes I look in the toilet before I flush it, too. Anything else?”
“One interesting thing, you know how on one of the FOX news shows they have that rapid-fire viewer mail? Well evidently you have some fans. A lot of people are writing in and giving you a thumbs up, telling the talking heads to stick it, and some even agreeing with the letter. One guy even said he’d help you if given the chance. They even had a cop on, didn’t show his face of course, saying he understood the frustration that you must be feeling. How he felt it all the time, but had the discipline to not act on it. He didn’t so much condemn what you’re doing, but didn’t necessarily say it was wrong either. They had him watch the tape of the Ping shooting and give it a play-by-play. By the way, that picture you saw of all the cops, including the wounded one, smiling down at the body on the steps? It made the front page in every paper yesterday. Your fifteen minutes has begun.” Paul saluted the occasion with his beer.
Sam flopped down in his chair with a dishrag still in his hands. “What about the letter? Are they still printing it?”
“With almost every article,” Paul replied.
“Word-for-word?”
“Yes and no. All the papers have printed something close. Only one has printed a story with it that explains that the FBI has most likely changed it in some way, to separate the original shooter from any copiers. He didn’t go into detail, or speculate on what was changed, but the information was there.”
