Sniper

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Anne noted that Melissa was staring at them as if they had just arrived from another solar system. She thought there was a look of hostile disapproval when she looked at Houston. Ignoring the girl, Anne walked over and stood beside him. She looked at the picture that held his attention. “Pam was beautiful,” she said.

  Houston started. “Yes, she was. My sister took that picture on the Fourth of July. Susie was thirteen that year. Six months later everything went to hell and I left.”

  “You never tried to reconcile?”

  “I didn’t think there was any hope. I started drinking heavily and just lost my way. As long as I was a cop, Pam would never have considered reconciliation. She hated my job, almost as much as she came to hate me.”

  “I think you’re being too harsh on yourself. I can understand how she may have disliked what you do, but I doubt she hated you. You are, after all is said and done, the father of her child, and for a woman that is something that always gives a man a special place in her heart.”

  “She’d probably have changed that if she could.”

  Houston went about his business in the only way he knew how. He needed to process things for himself, and part of the process he used was self-flagellation. For the time being she was thankful that she knew him well enough to restrict her role to that of an interested bystander.

  She walked to the other side of the room, stood quiet and watched while he turned back to the desk and picked up one of Susie’s textbooks. He flipped through the pages without actually reading them and returned the book to its place. He picked up a loose-leaf photo album, opened it and began looking at the pictures.

  Curiosity got the better of Anne and she returned to his side and looked over his shoulder at the pictures. Ignoring her, he turned the pages slowly. The first page contained a portrait of Susie as a toddler and several that appeared to be early grammar school photos.

  His face went through a number of emotions as he turned the pages. With each picture, he became sadder and on a couple of occasions grimaced as if someone had shoved a knife into his gut. He stared at an eight-by-five photo of a more mature Susie, dressed in a formal gown, standing between her mother and a healthy, athletic-looking young man. On the facing page was another of Susie and the young man alone, standing on a platform decorated with flowers and shiny banners.

  “Mike, have you ever considered this? If Pam hated you so much, why didn’t she remarry?”

  Houston didn’t want to address her statement and quickly changed the subject. He held the notebook up. “Looks like Susie’s prom picture.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Anne said.

  His eyes remained fixed on the photo album. “Something else I wasn’t around for.”

  He valiantly tried to look casual as he flipped through the album. Suddenly he closed the book and spun around. “I’m only in one picture. I guess even when I was around—I wasn’t.”

  Anne was shocked by the deep sorrow on her partner’s face; he had never before shown this softer side. “Maybe you were behind the camera taking the pictures.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “This job places a lot of demands on a family.”

  “I screwed that up, didn’t I? Instead of having a job to support my life I let it become my life.”

  “I don’t think Susie is going to like you going through her things,” Melissa said.

  Anne felt her face flush with anger, but she held back the retort that was on her tongue.

  The door opened and they stopped talking and turned toward it. A young woman walked in and immediately stopped, surprised by the presence of four people in her room. She held several books against her torso and her arms tensed, pulling them tighter. When she saw Houston, her face turned hard. She said nothing and closed the door behind her.

  Houston stared at her. It was as if a younger Pam had walked through the door. Susie’s hair was the same bright red as her mother’s. Her green eyes had a classical shape and her complexion was flawless. She was tall and looked athletic. The only thing marring her youthful beauty was the dark, angry look she gave her father, which resembled the look on Houston’s face when he was angry. She tensed, stiffened her back and demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  Justis had been silently standing by the threshold of the door since they had entered. “Well, it looks as if my presence is no longer required. I’ll be leaving.”

  “Thank you for your assistance,” Anne said.

  Justis nodded and left.

  Melissa also took Susie’s arrival as an excuse to exit. “I’m supposed to be studying with a friend,” she said, making a hasty retreat from the room.

  Tension filled the room and Houston’s face reddened. Houston struggled, trying not to respond to his daughter’s anger with his own. He was uncertain about what he should say. He stared at his daughter and said, “Hello, Susie.” His voice sounded gruff as he tried to hide the hurt, loss, and pain he felt.

  Susie pushed her way past him and dumped her books on the bed. “That’s it? After all these years, all you have to say is, ‘Hello, Susie’? Why don’t you do the one thing I know you’re good at and leave?”

  Houston’s jaw clenched as he battled to control the anger that his self-recrimination fueled. He knew that he had to keep his cool, because anything he said in haste would only exacerbate the situation and then there would be one more thing for which he would have to atone. He remained quiet.

  He realized that Anne tried to defuse the situation when she said, “Susie . . . ”

  His daughter spun and glared at her. “Who are you, his girlfriend? This is between my father and me—so butt out!”

  The flush on Anne’s face told Houston that she fought to keep from retaliating and lashing out at the younger woman. He debated whether or not he should intervene when Anne quickly regrouped, put on her professional face and said, “I’m your father’s partner. We came here because something has happened that your father felt you should hear from him.”

  Susie seemed convinced it was all a ploy to get her to calm down. The venom in her voice startled Houston when she snapped, “Whatever it is, tell me and then get out!”

  “It’s about your mom,” Houston said.

  Houston saw Susie’s mouth open with fear and her complexion pale. “Mom . . . what about Mom? Is she okay?” Despite her angry tone, her eyes darted between Anne and his. He knew that look all too well; he had seen it hundreds of times before.

  “No, she isn’t,” Houston said.

  “Has she been hurt?” Susie looked as if she were ready to bolt out the door and run to the nearest hospital.

  “She’s dead,” Houston said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted how clinical and cold they sounded.

  Susie’s legs seemed to lose strength and she sat on the bed. “Mom . . . dead? No way!”

  “I’m afraid it’s the truth,” Houston replied.

  “Did she have an accident?”

  “No.” Houston offered nothing more.

  Susie stared at her father as if the situation was beyond her comprehension. “If she didn’t have an accident, how did she die?” Tears streamed down her cheeks, smearing her makeup and leaving black tracks across her cheeks.

  “She was murdered.” Houston’s tone was devoid of any compassion.

  Susie flopped backward, rolled onto her side and began to sob.

  Houston was at a loss as to how he should handle the situation. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder.

  Susie recoiled from his touch and retreated to the far side of the bed, putting as much distance between them as the wall allowed. Suddenly she whirled around and launched herself at him, slapping at his arms and chest. As quickly as the attack started, it stopped, and Susie stared at her father through tear-filled eyes. “I want you to leave now.”

  Houston reached for her again and she kicked at him. “Just Go!”

  “Susie . . . ” Houston hated the
pleading in his voice.

  “Get the fuck out! I don’t want you here!” She sat up and huddled with her back against the wall, her legs pulled tight against her torso and her arms wrapped around them. She dropped her head and buried her face between her knees.

  Houston slid toward her and then checked his desire to embrace her, to help her deal with her shock. Suddenly he knew that his presence only made his daughter’s loss seem deeper. It took all of his energy to maintain his composure and refrain from shouting at her. He did not resist when Anne gently pulled him to his feet and urged him toward the door. “Let me handle this, okay?”

  He walked to the door and paused with his hand on the doorknob. He turned and looked back. Anne sat on the bed, Susie’s face pressed into her shoulder. She looked at Houston in a manner that told him to go.

  “I’ll call your Aunt Maureen.” Houston did not look back as he walked out.

  Anne held Susie for several moments, letting her cry out her shock and grief. She felt awkward. Although holding Mike’s daughter while she grieved for her mother seemed to be the natural thing to do, at the same time it felt unnatural. She had never before thought of herself as being a woman with a maternal instinct.

  After a while, Anne felt Susie’s sobs subside. Susie realized who held her and she pushed Anne away. She scrambled to the edge of the bed, reached over to the desk, grabbed some tissues from a box that was on the corner and began to dab at her eyes and cheeks.

  “Susie, I know how hard this must be.”

  Susie’s stare made Anne feel as if she had just arrived from some remote corner of the universe. “How can you know how I feel? You don’t know me.”

  “No, I don’t know you. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t know what it is like to lose a parent. I lost mine when I was a couple of years younger than you.”

  “I bet they weren’t murdered . . . ”

  “Yes, they were, only not in the same way your mother was. They were killed in a car accident coming home from a Christmas party. A drunk driver ran a stop sign and hit them head-on. As far as I’m concerned, it was murder.”

  Susie stared at Anne for a few seconds. “That must have really sucked.”

  “Yes, it did—big time . . . ”

  Susie dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Has anyone told Uncle Jimmy yet?” Anne’s head snapped back. “Uncle Jimmy?”

  Susie looked at Anne as if the older woman was brain damaged. “Jimmy O’Leary. He’s my mother’s brother.”

  Anne walked out of the building a half hour after Houston. She saw that Houston sat behind the steering wheel and slid into the passenger seat.

  She saw that Houston was in no mood to talk and she stared straight ahead. He started the motor and drove toward Kenmore Square. When he turned right onto Storrow Drive, she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “I’m going to drop you at the precinct and then I have another stop to make.”

  “In Southie?”

  Houston glanced at her. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “You’re going to tell your brother-in-law, aren’t you?”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “How long have you known that Jimmy is . . . was . . . my brother-in-law?”

  “Susie just told me.”

  Houston remained silent for a second. “It isn’t something that either he or I advertise.”

  11

  “Observation and perception are two different things; the observing eye is stronger, the perceiving eye is weaker.”

  — Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings

  The Claddagh Pub was busy. Blue-collar types lined the bar, many of whom drank away their entire paychecks. The tables were full, only with a slightly more upscale clientele who actually made solid food an integral part of their diets. Every television in the bar was tuned to the city’s most popular news broadcast, and the news team was split between the scenes of the two most recent sniper attacks. Houston looked at the shocked faces of O’Leary’s customers and realized how close to hysteria the city was becoming. He heard bits and pieces of conversations and all amounted to the same thing . . . What the hell are the cops doing about this psycho? He moved through the room, refusing to react to the derogatory comments.

  Houston noted that both Gordon Winter and the young woman O’Leary called Lisa were backing the bar. He ignored Winter’s glare and walked past the bar, down the corridor and, without knocking, burst through the door of Jimmy O’s office.

  O’Leary was at his desk, eating a burger and watching the evening news while his ever-present cigarette smoldered in an ashtray beside him. When the door banged against the wall, he started and reached for the half-open drawer on his right. Seeing who the intruder was, he relaxed. “Nice entrance. Am I supposed to be scared or some shit?”

  “We need to talk,” Houston said, elevating his voice to drown out the news commentators.

  “Again? It ain’t like you to run off at the mouth this much, Mike.” From the corner of his eye, Houston saw the scene on the TV screen switch to the gas station on Comm Avenue.

  O’Leary said, “You interrupted my dinner to talk—so what shall we talk about?”

  Houston nodded to the TV. “That . . . ”

  O’Leary glanced at the screen. “I told you, I ain’t involved in that shit. Why you back here bustin’ my ass about it?”

  “Because,” Houston said, “you’re involved now.”

  “Really, would it be possible for you to let me in on the fuckin’ secret? Keep it slow and simple, okay? I ain’t a high school grad like you.”

  “That vic was . . . ”

  “I hear it was some woman.”

  “Not just some woman . . . it was Pam.”

  O’Leary slammed his palm on the desk, and the ashtray and the plate on which the burger sat bounced off and exploded when they hit the floor. “What! How in fuck did that happen?”

  Houston sat in the easy chair. “She was shot while filling her gas tank.” “And you think it was the same asshole?” “Pretty sure. We’ll know more when the ballistics report comes back. Nevertheless, I’m certain it’s him.”

  O’Leary reached down to the floor beside his desk and when he sat up he held the cigarette and put it in his mouth. “You’re right . . . I’m involved. In fact, me and my organization are all the way in now.”

  “I can’t allow that, Jimmy. This is a police investigation . . . ”

  O’Leary sneered. “So investigate, but you can’t stop me from lookin’ for my sister’s killer.”

  “Stay out of it, Jimmy. We’ll get him.”

  “And then what? Put him up for the rest of his life? I know how the fuckin’ law binds your hands. Well, I got my methods too—and believe you me, I’ll get more information faster than you guys ever will.”

  O’Leary calmed down and picked up the ashtray. He stepped on the burning spot in the carpet, twisted his foot to put out the smoldering fire, and then ground his butt in the ashtray. “Susie bin told?”

  “I just left her.”

  O’Leary picked up on Houston’s body language. “Greeted you with open arms, did she?”

  “You know better.”

  “I was you I’d get her out of that dorm and someplace where we can keep an eye on her.”

  “I thought about that too. She won’t listen to me though.”

  “Well, she’ll talk with her Uncle Jimmy. I’ll call her and send someone to take her to your sister’s place.”

  “I can get police security there.”

  “Hah! Cops as security? All the shooter has to do is wait until they’re off someplace havin’ a fuckin’ donut. I’ll put some of my best people on it.”

  “Jimmy . . . ”

  “The friggin’ subject is closed. I’m in now and I ain’t getting out until I see this sonuvabitch and anyone who’s helpin’ him on a slab in the morgue . . . ”

  Houston and O’Leary looked at each other without talking for the better part of a minute. Then Houston stood. “I guess that’s
about all there is to say, isn’t it?”

  O’Leary lit another cigarette and gazed into the smoke, ignoring his brother-in-law. Without speaking, Houston walked out of the office. When he closed the door he heard something crash against the wall.

  12

  “Power grows out of the barrel of a gun.”

  —Mao Tse-tung

  Jimmy O’Leary walked into the warehouse, paused and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He saw Gordon Winter walk out of the office. “Where is he?” Jimmy asked. “In the back. Billy is with him.”

  O’Leary tossed his cigarette to the ground, stepped on it and followed Winter inside. They wove their way through corridors of contraband, much of which was still in the original cartons, and stolen cars waiting for a trip either to Mexico or a local chop shop. In the far corner, next to a large tool crib, a young black man clad in hip-hop clothes sat in a chair beneath a single light. Duct tape had been used to bind the kid’s feet to the chair legs and to secure his wrists to the armrests. O’Leary stood in front of him and lit another cigarette. “Billy, take his blindfold and gag off, then you can leave. Gord, I’d like for you to stick around.”

  “You think that’s wise?”

  “What, you staying here?”

  “No, letting this piece of shit see you.”

  “Don’t matter; he ain’t gonna tell anyone.”

  Billy ripped away the duct tape they had used to blindfold Jermaine Watts. When he tore off the tape the adhesive pulled out eyebrows and eyelashes he ignored the gangbangers muffled screams. Billy used a finger to pick at one end of the tape that covered Watts’ mouth. When he was able to get a grip on it, he yanked it free. He balled the tape up and arched it toward a fifty-five-gallon drum that served as a garbage can. The tape bounced off the lip and fell into the drum. Billy held his hands in the air as if he had just scored the decisive basket in a championship game. “Where are the fuckin’ scouts when you need them?” He turned back and stopped goofing when he saw O’Leary’s glare.