by Randall Wood
“Who, the Post?”
“No, a young man from Orlando.” Paul couldn’t help but smile at this point.
“Danny Drake?”
“Yes. It would seem my second round pick is working out rather well.”
Sam thought that over for a minute while he repeatedly dried his hands. It would be at least a few days until he went back to work. The media would continue to chew on the story until he provided something new. They would get distracted by some celebrity bullshit or another government scandal, but they wouldn’t stray too far from this, it was too juicy of a story. The Maryland sniper had the country glued to their sets for weeks before the anticlimactic ending. As much as he despised the press, he needed them. They would have to be careful.
“Let’s see what the press does in the next few days. If they all pick up on Danny’s story and include the alteration angle, we’ll keep them on the list. If not, then we’ll reduce it to just Danny.” Sam looked at his brother-in-law for an opinion.
Paul loudly sipped his beer and rocked in the chair for a few minutes before replying. “My first thought was we would reduce our coverage, but I guess that’s kinda stupid now. Between CNN and FOX, we can’t get much more. It’s even on the BBC. Like you said, it’s too juicy for them to drop it just because we drop them. It does however give Danny first crack at spinning it. As much as I like him, there’s no denying that he’s young. Are you sure you want him being our messenger? I thought the more voices the better?”
“From what I’ve read and what you tell me, he’s had two or three insights so far that the others haven’t and been right every time. I mean, this guy is actually thinking it out instead of just reporting it. He’s not an anchor or a producer. He doesn’t work for a tabloid. He sounds like an honest-to-God journalist, and you and I both know they are a rarity these days. I’d rather have one good voice than a bunch of parrots feeding people information for us. Wouldn’t you?”
Paul thought for a few seconds before shaking his head and standing up. “Hell, Sam, why do you make me try and think when I’m full of pizza and beer? Let’s watch the damn DVR and I’ll dwell on this for a day.” He turned and stomped into the living room toward the big screen. Sam saw the ring Paul had worn into the back pocket of his jeans from carrying endless cans of chewing tobacco. Something he had quickly given up after Sam had been diagnosed.
He rose from his chair to follow Paul. What was it Paul had called the pocket? Oh yeah, he smiled, his condom pocket.
—TWENTY-THREE—
The state of Minnesota holds 7,865 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 5,269 are repeat offenders.
“Well, what do we have?”
“Not much.” Sydney went first, to everyone’s relief. “The rifle was recovered from the dumpster intact. Same make and model as the first one. No prints, but at least we can match it to the round that killed the victim. Some fibers recovered from the scene and some yet to be recovered from the Superglue. He left quite a bit of hardware behind and the locals are trying to figure out were he may have purchased it.”
“Excuse me?” Jack interrupted.
“What?” Sydney looked up from her notes.
“Trace it how, exactly?”
“The glue, bells, boots, light bulbs, they all have brand names or lot numbers that can be traced. He may have acquired them all from the same place. If we can determine the place, we can check receipts. If a receipt is found with those items, we have a time and date of purchase. Then we start looking at surveillance camera footage,” she explained.
Jack just shook his head with a smile. He heard a laugh from Larry.
“Are you Big Brother or am I?” Larry asked.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Go on.”
Sydney smiled back before continuing. “The boot print matches a popular brand sold everywhere. The size does match the shoes from the first shooting however. No wear on the tread. They were brand new.” She flipped her pad shut.
“That’s it?” Jack asked.
“You said keep it quick. Everything else is waiting for lab work. The rest is speculation,” she answered.
“All right. Larry?”
Larry loosened his tie further than it already was before sitting on the edge of his seat. “I kept my interviews limited to the witness in the alley, a lawyer who may have entered with the shooter, and the cops at the scene. We have a decent description, but the man wore sunglasses and a hard hat, worker’s clothing complete with tool belt, some items on the belt she remembers. Maybe we should add them to your shopping list Sydney.” He paused and flipped a page. “White male. Six foot or a little more. Clean shaven. Muscular. He spoke American English with no accent. I have the artist drawing and some copies for you. Second witness says he held the door for such a person as described, but has little memory of his looks, remembers him carrying something long. Went to the forth floor. Claims he was reading his paper and really not paying attention. Nothing else from him.” Larry paused again for a big yawn that he struggled to check. “Sorry, talked to all the cops including the one who got hit. Nothing good on their end. Shot was there long before they heard it. One that got hit was impressed with the shooter. Said when we catch him tell him no apology necessary.” Larry rolled his eyes at that. “Other than that, Jack, they have nothing to offer. No suspicious people on the steps. Camera footage shows nothing unusual. Audio confirms only one shot. Looks like a one-man show again.”
Jack took the information in silence. It was what he had expected. But what was he hoping for anyway, a grassy knoll? Maybe Sydney’s shopping list would bear some fruit, but, if it did, it would be awhile. Could they gain any more by staying here? No, he decided. They would move on. Larry’s yawn only showed how tired they were, and the time change wasn’t helping. They needed time for the lab rats to do their thing. It made the decision easier.
“Everything you can copy, carry or fit on the plane comes with us. Pass out your cards to everybody and make some friends before we go. Have the rest shipped overnight to headquarters. All the lab work needs to be forwarded also. Make sure everyone has the right address and contact information. While you’re doing that, I’ll talk to the damn press again and call the Director. Back at the plane in—” he glanced at the wall clock and factored in the time change, “—three hours. You can all sleep on the plane.”
Any complaints were kept to themselves as they all rose and filed out of the room. Sydney lingered until they were all gone. He knew what she was going to say.
“I know, I know. We’re all tired. I just need a few more hours, and then everyone gets a break. No work on the plane.”
She closed her mouth and swallowed what she was going to say.
“I hate it when you do that,” she said instead.
“I know that, too.”
* * *
Sam sat in his usual chair staring out the window at the rain. The slight burning sensation was in the left arm this time. Dr. Maher had tried to talk him into having a port installed when he had first been diagnosed. Sam had resisted to the point that they had given in. So far his veins had held up to the abuse. Sam couldn’t really explain it, but he did not like the idea of a foreign object in his body. Despite all the scars from his days in the military, he was free of any metal. He preferred to keep it that way.
Sam propped his head up with his hand and felt himself nodding off. He rearranged his butt in the chair as best he could. He had to stay awake. Sleeping wasn’t allowed during chemotherapy. The staff couldn’t tell if you were having a reaction or just sleeping. He tried a few tricks he had learned in sniper school. Tickling the roof of his mouth with his tongue sent a shiver through him and woke his brain up. He reached for the cup of ice chips and crunched some. He had slept in until after 9 a.m., yet he was still tired. The chair wasn’t helping. You were supposed to stay awake, yet they put you in a nice recliner for the duration. Sam couldn’t decide if it fit the definition of irony, but he doubted it was far off
.
Thinking about the last few days, Sam knew why he was tired. His body just wasn’t up to the mission as it was before. Something he was slowly coming to terms with. The frequent pain in his gut was increasing in intensity. The fatigue was more and more present. He had a feeling this visit was not going to be a good one.
He saw the reflection of Dr. Maher in the window as he entered the room. He followed him with his eyes as the doctor had a quiet conversation with the nurse at the desk before picking up a clipboard and walking toward Sam. Sam turned to meet his gaze as he approached.
“Hey, Doc.” Sam offered a smile and a hand.
“Sam, good to see you. You’re late,” Dr. Maher accused.
“Yeah, a few days. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize to me. You’re the one who needs it.”
“Point taken.”
“What held you up this time?”
Sam added some sarcasm to his reply. “Well, I was up in the mountains. You know, watching the eagles and the elk and all. Postcard scenes everywhere I turned. Then it hit me, I better get back to Michigan before the rain stops or I’m gonna miss it.”
Dr. Maher couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, you got me there. But you need to understand that this is important. If we’re gonna beat this, it’s best that you keep your treatments on schedule.”
“Labs are bad aren’t they?” Sam asked.
Dr. Maher slumped back in the chair next to Sam and looked him in the eye. “No, no they’re not. How have you been feeling the last few days?”
Sam decided this would be a good time for the truth, at least about his health. “Not good. I’ve been pretty active. I know you told me to rest, but that’s just never been me. Especially now. I have too much I want to see, so I’ve been pushing it a little. I’m tired all the time. As long as I’m doing something I’m okay, but as soon as I sit down I’m out. Spiked a couple of fevers a few days ago.” Sam hesitated before going on. “And the pain is worse.”
Dr. Maher took this information in silence. He had come to know Sam as well as one could in this situation. In medical school they had told him to be friendly, but don’t become a friend. It was very hard to do with someone like Sam. Sam was a proud man and also a tough one. He had always shrugged off the pain in the past. To admit to it now was something to be addressed. But they had another problem.
“Tell me about these fevers. How long do they last and how high does your temperature get?”
“Not sure how high they get, never stuck a thermometer in my mouth. Pretty high. They last a few minutes to a few hours. Woke me up once.”
“It’s a sign of infection. Your lab work is showing that your B-cells are lower. We may have to stop the chemotherapy until they come up some.”
“Stop the chemo? Didn’t you just say we needed to stay on schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Well then how...” Sam realized what was being said.
“It’s a balancing act, Sam. I’d like you to stay close for a few weeks. Can you do that for me?”
Sam thought it through for a moment. They were too far into it to quit now.
“No, I already have the next trip set up.”
“Postpone it? Just a couple of weeks,” Maher asked.
Sam smiled at the doctor. “That would kind of defeat the purpose wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Besides, what are the odds now?” Sam added.
Dr. Maher shook his head at that. “I don’t give odds, Sam. We fight like we aim to win. That’s all there is in my book.”
“Fair enough,” Sam agreed.
They paused for an uncomfortable silence before Maher remembered the clipboard. “Janet’s gonna bleed you some, and then poke you a couple of times. Have you out in about thirty minutes.”
“Great. Thanks, Doc.”
Maher rose and stuck out a hand.
“Next week?” he pried.
“Little after,” Sam answered.
“Okay.”
Maher turned and walked back toward the desk, scribbling in the chart. Sam turned and contemplated the steady drizzle running down the window.
* * *
Danny had contacted every source that he knew. The official police press statement was in his briefcase, along with several back articles from the local papers. Several rolls of film had been sent to his editor. He had emailed part one of his story a couple of hours ago and wondered if that had been a wise decision. He really had no idea what he was going to do for part two. It was a foolish decision in hindsight. He was waiting for a call from Jack, he just didn’t want to admit it. Even if Jack did call, that didn’t mean he would get any useful information from him. Danny knew he was being used, but so far Jack had been up front and honest about it, which was a lot more than most informants were. Was Jack an informant? Hard to say really. True, he had told Danny things that the rest of the press had not been privy to. It had been just enough to keep Danny a little ahead of the game. Maybe it was a test? To see what Danny did with the information he was given before the real good stuff was released? Or to see if Danny had the balls to do what Jack needed? Nevertheless, the phone had yet to ring again.
He turned it off as he boarded the plane. It was a long flight back to Orlando.
—TWENTY-FOUR—
The state of Mississippi holds 23,182 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 15,531 are repeat offenders.
Sam sat in seat 14F on NorthWest flight 1108 out of Detroit. He attempted to sleep, but the loud drone of the engines, combined with the constant shifting of the passenger next to him, made it impossible. Sam cracked an eyelid and assessed the man. About 5'8", 250 or 260. Couple of chins. Suit. Also trying to sleep. Why would anyone wear a suit on a flight that left the gate at 9:14 in the evening? Sam looked over his shoulder at the rest of the plane. It was mostly dark, the majority reading or trying to sleep.
He shoved his head back into the wadded up fleece pullover he had worn to the gate. The drone of the engines traveled right through it. Rolls Royce engines. It had occurred to him as they had climbed to altitude. They had a distinctive hum. Not surprising, since it was an Airbus plane.
He had been at the airport an hour prior to takeoff as was required now since 9-11. The transit through the new security gates had been long but easy, the attendants polite when the alarms went off for forgotten keys, change, and such. A young man had gone through in front of him and alarmed repeatedly, until he remembered his dog tags and pulled them from his shirt with some embarrassment. Sam remembered the feeling. Wearing the things for so long you forgot they were there. The soldier was quickly passed with a few heartfelt thank you’s from both the security people and a few passengers. Something Sam was very happy to see.
He moved with the crowd toward the departure gates, well familiar with the layout. Instead of opting for the tram, he walked toward his favorite feature of the terminal. NorthWest had its own terminal in Detroit and had chosen to include a large animated water fountain in its center. Sam had found himself sitting through an entire show when he first encountered it, and usually had the time to catch a repeat every time he flew. The fountain looked like nothing special till the show began and a series of jets shot water in various arcs across it from a variety of directions. The speed slowly increased until the jets were leaping over and under each other, becoming too fast to follow. It was a model of both art and engineering, of which Sam was a fan. Despite it being in the middle of the terminal, Sam chose the area for its anonymity. Passengers either walked past in a hurry to make their flights, or watched the fountain. Nobody really paid attention to the people watching the fountain. He hid in plain sight.
Now seated in the cramped coach section and giving up on sleep, Sam reviewed the information on the man he was traveling to see. TJ Olson was famous for two reasons. At one time he had been the National Baseball League’s home run super star. A young man from the state of Florida, he had grown up being groomed
for greatness. His father, a former catcher for the Boston Red Sox, and his uncle, a major league batting coach, had taught from an early age what it took to hit a baseball. His tall frame and sharp eyes made him an outstanding hitter and he did well, pulling his college team to several winning seasons, and himself a quick shot at the pros. His first two years of major league ball were not as fruitful. He was not quite ready for the speed and skill he encountered from the major league pitchers. Looking for an edge, he turned to steroids. When he put fifteen pounds of muscle on his frame before reporting for spring training, it could not help but be noticed. But TJ worked with the best, and when it came time for testing he always came up clean. His home runs began racking up and the players, coaches, and fans all overlooked the growing physique of the young ball player. TJ prospered. Endorsements came with large paychecks, and he was soon seen on various red carpets with several of Hollywood’s single females.
But TJ’s success and constant time in the spotlight brought his demons out of the closet. An athlete from a young age, TJ’s body had been able to handle the drinking and drug use that slowly had been creeping further and further into his life. After a sidewalk interview following a movie premiere, a clearly intoxicated TJ, unsteady on his feet, walked to his car and drove away. It was soon on all the networks and his rumored drug use was now confirmed. A drunk driving arrest that had been buried since collage was soon resurrected and TJ was the in the press for some time. Sponsors cancelled their contracts, prompting TJ to hit the bottle even harder. A few months later he was found unconscious in his Mercedes, which he had somehow managed to drive off the road. The paparazzi swarmed and TJ’s mug shot was on everyone’s TV screen the next day. The judge slapped him on the wrist and sent him to rehab, which, to no one’s surprise, he managed to finish in time for spring training.
Here TJ’s problems continued, and the years of drinking, steroids, and drug use were taking their toll. His batting average suffered but he still managed to keep his home runs adding up. But with the press and the fans constantly hounding him, he soon turned back to the bottle. Four months into the season he was once again convicted of drunk driving after he drove into a parked car. Since he had both drugs and alcohol in the car and his system, the judge gave him a few days in jail that time. The sentence was shortened dramatically by the sheriff who claimed it was due to overcrowding. TJ once again shuffled off to another record setting recovery at a celebrity rehab facility.
