“When can I have her body?” Leopold’s eyes started tearing again, leaving streaks on his cheeks. “I have . . . arrangements to make.”
“Unfortunately,” Houston answered, “we don’t know. The medical examiner has control of the . . . your wife. But, I’m sure they won’t keep her long.” He wondered how Leopold would react if he knew of the indignities his wife’s body had probably received on the medical examiner’s table. There is no nice way to perform an autopsy. He recalled the image of her lying in the flowers with her skirt hiked up, exposing her thighs and underwear. He was thankful he had intervened and hoped that if any photographers had gotten a picture of her in that state that they would refrain from ever releasing or publishing it.
The silence became oppressive. When Anne’s cell phone vibrated, Houston was grateful for the interruption. He remained stoic as she answered the phone and listened for several seconds. He knew something had happened when she suddenly stood and said, “I’m sorry we had to disturb you, Mr. Leopold.” They shook the grieving man’s hand in turn and left him standing in the middle of his immaculate living room, looking like an overgrown child.
Once they were in their car, Houston said, “That was a pretty abrupt end in there.”
“That was Dysart. He wants to see us.”
8
“The sniper is able to select his targets with care so that it will do the greatest possible damage to their morale and fighting ability.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
The van sat far enough from the house for him to observe without being observed. He had been careful and moved the truck every hour, driving around the block and parking in a different location. He hoped the white van and his nondescript work clothes would make him appear as an appliance repairman. The last thing he wanted was for some nosey neighbor to call the cops and report a suspicious vehicle parked in front of their house for a long time.
During the third hour of his vigil, she appeared. He had checked and double-checked the address because of all the targets, this was the most important. The woman was petite, with flaming red hair that told of her Irish heritage. She had a terrific figure for her age, which by now must be her early to mid-forties. She threw some stuff into the back seat, got in her car and drove away. He followed her north on Waltham Street. When they turned onto Route 2 to Boston, he sighed in relief. It was a major thoroughfare and there was always a great deal of traffic. He relaxed, ceased worrying that she would realize he was following and let the traffic serve as camouflage.
He kept the distance between him and her car constant and wondered if he should have brought his driver. It was risky doing both the shooting and the driving. Besides, it wouldn’t have hurt to have someone familiar with Boston traffic patterns. He blew through his lips. It was too late to worry about that. He would just have to make the best of the situation.
The woman left Route 2 at the Alewife Rotary and turned onto Fresh Pond Parkway, toward Memorial Drive, and crossed the Charles River toward Kenmore Square at the Harvard Bridge. Traffic began to slow due to the proximity of Fenway Park and he felt frustration and impatience creeping in. When she pulled into a gas station on Commonwealth Avenue, he exhaled in relief. She stopped alongside the pump closest to the street and got out. At least that worked in his favor. He spied an open area across the street and couldn’t believe how lucky he was. Rather than making an illegal U-turn, which would attract attention, he drove past. He turned at the next corner, sped up as much as he dared and then returned to Commonwealth Avenue. He hoped she was still at the station and that no one had taken the open parking spot across the street while he had circled the block.
His luck held—the slot was still vacant. He looked toward the gas station. She stood beside her car, pumping gas and ignoring her surroundings. She didn’t even glance up when he slid into the open space.
Commuters stood on the sidewalk, chatting loudly over the din of the city while waiting for their bus. One of the commuters tapped on the passenger door glass and shouted, “Hey, you dumb or something? This is a freakin’ bus stop, for crying out loud.” He knew the nosy interloper couldn’t see into the van and was thankful for the tinted windows. Still he knew he had little time, a bus could come along at any moment. He lowered the street-side window. The heavy flow of traffic passing between him and the target meant that his timing had to be precise. The shot had to be taken at the exact instant or he might hit a passing car, allowing his target to escape.
His rifle sat on the floor on the passenger side, propped against the seat with the muzzle up. He snatched it up and leaned back so the rifle’s short barrel remained within the confines of the vehicle. He quickly pulled the stock tight into his shoulder. He held the weapon firm and waited for his eye to acclimate itself to the scope’s magnification. It almost exaggerated everything too much. A gigantic gas pump moved across the crosshairs and then the hood of her car appeared. He stopped sweeping and shifted his aim slightly, centered on the passenger window of her car. He smiled when he saw that, rather than use her air conditioning, she had rolled down all of the car’s windows. The scope made her breasts seem huge, as if they were too large for the constraints imposed on them by the thin summer-weight T-shirt. Nice rack, he thought, too bad . . .
He waited until two cars, one in each direction, passed through the scope, blurring his sight picture. A horn blasted and he glanced at the outside mirror; a bus was pulling into the stop and the driver laid on the horn again. The bus driver honked a third time, holding it longer, and he ignored it, focusing on the reticules of the scope. The target was clear and centered in the crosshairs; he pulled the trigger. The blasting horn muted the rifle’s bark to all but the passengers waiting at the stop. He heard the interloper shout, “What the hell was that? It sounded like gunfire!”
Someone else said, “Gunfire? This ain’t the ’Bury . . . it’s Comm Ave. It was probably a backfire.”
The sniper glanced in the passenger-side mirror and saw a burnout with a ring in her nose pointing at his van. “I think it came from that van,” she said.
The sniper knew it was time to exit the area. The shot had been taken and now it was time to haul ass. He took a last look at the gas station, but did not see the target. However, he was not concerned and was certain that even if he hadn’t killed the target, his shot had scored. Throwing the rifle into the passenger seat, he pressed his foot down on the accelerator, suppressing his impulse to stomp hard on the gas pedal, making the tires scream, and attracting everyone’s attention. He pulled out of the bus stop and drove away, gradually increasing speed as he left the bus behind. He sped toward Brookline and glanced in the rearview mirror, where he saw the burnout standing beside the curb, gesturing to him. The sniper put his left arm out the window and raised it to the sky with the middle finger extended. He laughed. “Now, Mikey, maybe you’ll get the message.”
Houston and Anne left I-93 at the former Boston Garden—now the TD Garden—and headed toward Storrow Drive. Traffic was horrible.
“Should I hit the lights and siren?” Anne asked.
“No. I’m kinda enjoyin’ the ride. This case is getting to me.”
“How many times has Dysart called you today?” she asked.
“More than he’s called me in the last five years.”
“What have you told him?”
“What is there to say? We got crap so far.”
“Have you told him you talked to Jimmy O?”
“Hell, no. He’d go ballistic if he knew I was using Jimmy as a source.”
Anne’s cell phone rang. Since she was driving, Anne handed the phone to him. The caller ID listed the main number for BPD. He hit the speaker button. “Houston.”
Dysart’s voice said, “Mike? Why do you have Anne’s phone?”
“She’s driving.”
“Where are you guys?”
“Storrow Drive, just past the Museum of Science.”
“Good, you’re close. Get your as
ses over to Kendall Square . . . the son of a bitch might have hit again . . . ”
At times Houston believed Anne had been a cab driver in a previous life, because she handled city traffic better than anyone he knew. In spite of the late afternoon rush, she got to Commonwealth Avenue in less than ten minutes; a NASCAR driver couldn’t have completed a practice lap easier. Nevertheless, by the time they arrived at the scene of the sniper’s most recent kill, the crime scene unit was already on-site and several uniforms had the entrance to the self-service gas station blocked off.
Unable to get off the street without disturbing the scene, they double-parked beside one of the patrol cars. Anne and Houston hooked their badges to their belts as they approached the crime scene and stepped inside. The crime scene techs had finished most of their work and stood in a huddle about twenty feet away from a compact car that stood beside the outermost gas pumps. They were able to see that the victim was lying between the gas pumps and the Toyota Camry. Houston stared at the car—it was familiar. A woman’s handbag lay on the ground nearby and for some reason he was reluctant to approach the body. His heart pounded so hard that it hammered in his chest and his throat constricted, making it difficult to breathe. He overcame his inertia and walked to the black sedan. Houston squatted beside the body and immediately bolted to his feet, cursed and spun around until he faced the busy street.
He tried to hide his reactions from Anne, but was unsuccessful. She asked, “What’s going on, Mike? Do you know this woman?”
“Her name is Pamela.”
“That’s it? Pamela? Pamela what?”
“If she hasn’t changed back to her maiden name, her name is Pamela Houston.”
9
“I was taught to get in, get close, kill quickly, and get out, without ever being seen.”
—Gunnery Sergeant Jack Coughlin, USMC
Anne’s mouth was open with shock when she stood and said, “My God, Mike, are you telling me that she’s—”
“My ex-wife.”
Houston was so inwardly directed that he missed the fact that Anne was too surprised to know what to say. His face flushed with the heat of a blistering rage. Suddenly, his face cooled and he became worried. “Christ, how can I tell Susie?”
He couldn’t remember another time in his life when he had no idea of what he should do. How could he tell his only child that her mother was dead? There was only one thing he believed would be worse—burying one’s child.
“We haven’t talked in a couple of years,” Houston said. He faced Commonwealth Avenue and stared at something only he could see.
Anne ventured a response. “Well, you are divorced.”
Houston turned his head toward her, as if he had forgotten her presence. “Not Pam—Susie.” Houston turned back and seemed mesmerized by the crowd standing on the sidewalk across the street. “Now I have to find her and tell her this?” Houston’s face had lost its color and when he clenched his fists, he reminded her of a World War II poster her grandfather had framed over his mantle. It depicted an angry man pulling off his jacket, with fists clenched for a fight. The caption read: TELL THAT TO THE MARINES!
Anne stepped to his side and placed a hand on his arm. “I’ll help you. We’ll talk to her together.” She stepped in front of him, and he saw she was concerned for him. “Are you up to this, Mike? Maybe you should wait in the car.”
Houston held up his hand to prompt her to stop fretting. “I can do my job, Anne.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I know you, Mike. You hide your feelings better than anyone I’ve ever known and that’s fine in a poker game, but this is something else entirely. You’ve just looked at the body of someone who is important to you.”
“Pam stopped being important years ago.”
Houston heard Anne blow through her lips, a sound similar to a whale blowing water, and knew she was not buying his line.
“Who are you trying to convince—you or me?” she snapped. Anger elevated the volume of her words.
Houston inhaled sharply. His chest puffed out like a bird’s feathers on a freezing day. “Either way, no matter who the vic is, we got a job to do.” He walked back to the body.
Houston felt resistance as he squatted beside Pam’s body and realized it was not physical but emotional resistance. Their life together flashed through his mind like a slide presentation. He remembered their wedding. Neither family could afford a big ceremony, so they decided on a private service—Pam, two witnesses and him.
The priest asked, “Pamela, do you take Michael as your lawfully wedded husband?”
Pam lost her place in the prayer book and frantically flipped pages, trying to find the correct one.
The priest smiled and gently said, “Pamela?”
She looked at him. “Yes?”
“Do you take Michael for your husband?”
She looked at him and then at Mike. She turned back to the preacher and rolled her eyes in a manner that showed how absurd she found the question. “Of course, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
As he inspected her body, Houston’s hands brushed against Pam’s cheeks. It was the first time he had touched her familiar body since their separation and divorce. Since the breakup, he had harbored the hope that someday they might mend things and get back together. He felt a profound sadness, caused by the sudden realization that now there was no way they could ever do so. His hands shook and he clenched them into fists to control it. He felt a light touch on his shoulder.
Without looking, he knew it was Anne. He also knew that she felt the tremors that racked him and hoped she believed they were a result of the situation and not the return of the damned shakes that he had been hiding from everyone the past year. Truthfully, he too was unsure whether the trembling was the result of whatever was going on within him or if Pam’s murder rattled him more than he was willing to admit.
“Mike, let me do this.”
He rocked back, folded his arms and hid his unsteady hands in his underarms. He looked skyward and rested on his heels. “She was a good woman, Anne—a far better wife to me than I was a husband to her. She deserved someone who could place her first . . . ”
Anne gently guided him to his feet. “You sell yourself too cheap. It takes two to make a relationship and two to destroy it.”
Houston allowed her to guide him away from the body. He walked a couple of steps to the side and stood there, feeling like a pressure cooker about to explode while Anne returned to the body. She squatted and brushed Pam’s long red hair to one side, exposing her torso. Even though he stood several feet from her body, Houston saw the bloody smear on her left breast. Experience with wounds of this nature told him that based on the location of the bloodstain; the bullet had probably punctured her heart. Nevertheless, it would be up to the medical examiner to determine the exact cause of death. Of one thing, he was certain; if Pam had not died instantaneously, she was most likely dead shortly after she hit the pavement. The knowledge gave him no solace.
The air around Pam’s body reeked of gasoline. Houston looked at the concrete beside the body bag and saw several places where gas had pooled. When Anne finished inspecting the body and stood up she motioned for the CSU people to bag the body. Unable to think of another way to assuage his anger and regain his objectivity, he stated the obvious. “It looks as if he hit her while she was gassing up.”
Anne turned to the car and bent over, staring through the driver side window. “Was she going to school?”
“Not that I know of, why?”
“Look in the back seat.” She stepped aside to allow him enough space.
Houston leaned in through the passenger-side window. He knew that touching the car was contaminating the crime scene, but he didn’t care. He placed his hands on the windowsill and scanned the car’s interior. Books and papers were scattered over the rear seat of the car and a Boston University T-shirt lay on the seat. Houston stepped back, stumbling as he did.
“What is it?” Anne asked.<
br />
As suddenly as the shaking had started, it stopped. Houston quickly recovered his composure. He avoided looking at the body bag when he spoke. “BU has buildings all along Comm Ave. and we’re only a short distance from Kenmore Square. Even though it’s August and the on-campus population is at its lowest, students take summer courses.”
“Mike, what are you getting at?”
Houston wiped at the perspiration that soaked his brow. “Pam hated driving in Boston—the traffic drove her nuts. There’s only one thing I can think of that would be important enough for her to drive here.”
Anne suddenly made the connection. “Your daughter attends school in the city.”
“Yeah, she’s a freshman at BU.”
Houston was unable to shake the feeling that the sniper was taunting him and would want to see his reaction to this personal attack. He stared at the crowded sidewalk across the street. Rage drilled a hole through his guts as he searched the faces of the gawkers, commuters, and baseball fans gathered there. He tried to concentrate on each face, hoping some supernatural power would suddenly take control and reveal the shooter to him.
He scrutinized the assembled throng, suspicious of every one of them. Until he had a specific suspect in mind, everyone he encountered would be considered a potential killer and he would trust few people, if any. Which one of the gathered crowd was his shooter? Which of them was thumbing a nose at him?
He didn’t see Anne walk around the car and was surprised when she stood beside him. She too stared across the street at the spectators. “Are you going to be able to maintain your objectivity?”
“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”
Anne said, “This shooter is either a lot smarter or a lot luckier than the average criminal. He couldn’t have chosen a better time of day.”
“I was thinking the same thing. This crowd is gathering for the game between the Sox and the Yankees. If he’d waited an hour later, the streets from here to Fenway Park and Kenmore Square would be impassable.” Houston turned to Anne. “I want this guy.”
Sniper Page 6
