by David Thurlo
* * *
Nancy drove north in her unmarked vehicle, Gordon following closely in his big pickup with Charlie riding shotgun. Both had their concealed carry beneath light jackets.
They crossed the Rio Grande on the Paseo del Norte Avenue bridge and within fifteen minutes Gordon pulled up to the curb that defined the grassy, egg-shaped park. The lawn was about the size and shape of a high school athletic field.
Unable to find a space near Nancy in the line of official-looking vehicles, mostly marked and unmarked law enforcement units, Gordon had to circle the park to find a spot on the opposite side. Cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes surrounded the park and the adjacent streets, and more than a hundred civilians were congregating at the west end of the park, outside the restricted area. That section, halfway across the big lawn, had been delineated by yellow crime scene tape. Flowers lay scattered along the boundary, accompanied by lit candles of various sizes, most of them in glass jars.
As Charlie climbed out of the pickup, he noted that several folding chairs had been set up in what appeared to be their positions last night before the attack. Gordon came up beside him, and they crossed the grass and met Nancy at the halfway point, ducking under the tape.
“That where you and the victims were seated?” Gordon asked.
Charlie took a careful look at reference points, including the monument, then nodded. “I’m guessing that they’re hoping to re-create the scene and get a better idea of how things went down.” He’d already identified a cop who was standing in the front row, looking off to the southeast. It was Detective DuPree, this time in a light blue APD windbreaker instead of his weary, checkered sports jacket.
“Looks like a crowd is gathering.” Gordon glanced over his shoulder toward the west end. “Now that there might be a terrorist angle, this is going to be an unfortunate attraction for a while.” He stopped and looked up at the ten-foot-tall, foot-thick, polished granite monument shaped in the roughly square outline of New Mexico, pegged on the bottom left. Carved into the sides were terms and expressions used to describe those who put their lives on the line—patriot, first responder, Marine, soldier, sailor, medic, police officer.
“Today that slab of granite reminds me more of a tombstone,” Nancy commented sadly. “I wish I’d caught up to that bastard last night. Every hour this event is in the news there’s someone overseas cheering about the death of another American.”
“This guy is living on borrowed time, and if someone was working with him, they’re both going down,” Gordon replied, catching up to Charlie and Nancy.
DuPree nodded to them as they approached. “Thanks for coming back, Charlie. I wanted to get your confirmation regarding the location of the chairs last night, and the victims. I’ve been tracing the shooter’s field of view based upon where we found the .223 brass. Check it out and give me your feedback.”
Charlie took a quick look around. There were colored and numbered flags on wires stuck into the grass identifying the location of victims, blood, and the position of chairs and other items after the shooting had occurred. “Okay if I sit down to re-create my field of view?”
“If that helps,” DuPree replied.
When he and Ruth had been led to their seats in the front row, he introduced himself and Ruth to those already there, including Captain Whitaker and his sister, Janice, to his right, in the seats beyond Ruth. To Charlie’s left had been Olivia Benevidez, an APD police officer who’d been shot a year ago while attempting to arrest a drug dealer. Her husband, a private school teacher, had been seated in the next chair over.
Choosing the seat he believed was in the same position during the ceremony, he sat and looked to his two o’clock, southeast from where he was facing. Across the park, beyond the street, were houses in a row, and in the space between properties, he saw a red flag on a wooden post, and a utility pole within a few feet. An officer was standing beside the pole, looking in his direction.
“The red flag is in the right position, or very close to it, as I recall. That’s where I saw the muzzle flash. I’m ninety percent sure that’s where the shooter was positioned. It looks to be about a hundred and twenty yards, give or take.”
“A hundred and twenty-five, to be precise. Good estimate.”
“Not a difficult shot, assuming the weapon was equipped with a scope, and there was still ambient light here in the park.”
“Agreed. You didn’t get a look at the shooter, is that correct?” DuPree asked. “Not enough for any description, even a general height, weight, or like that?”
“No, the sniper was in deep shadow, and the sun had already gone down. It was essentially dark at that location. I do recall seeing the pole from the flash when the second round was fired. It was to the left of the shooter, probably.”
“That makes sense. We also found a nail driven about an inch into the wooden pole forty inches off the ground,” DuPree added.
“A rest for the rifle to steady the aim of a right-handed shooter?” Gordon suggested.
“Based upon the position, that makes sense,” Nancy said. “We believe the shooter was kneeling, Gordon, and not a little person. That confuses the actual height of the shooter.”
Gordon frowned at Nancy, who was six inches taller than him.
“The attack took some planning,” Charlie said. “I can’t help but believe that the shooter had a specific target in mind, at least for the first one or two rounds.”
“But two more people were shot.”
“The man who died was only struck once, then the shooter switched targets,” DuPree pointed out. “That supports the theory that the shooter wanted to kill more than one person, which goes to support the terrorist claims that we read in that letter.”
“An attack by a very careful terrorist, then, but not a trained sniper. With a limited-capacity, old-school magazine—five rounds—if that’s what it was, then hitting a target sixty percent of the time isn’t that bad,” Gordon confirmed. “By the time the third round was fired, everyone was diving for cover. That’s how it went down, right?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said, turning around to look in the second row, then back at the flag in the distance. “Those guys back there, they were seated pretty much in line with the captain.”
“Looking from where the shooter was, the field of fire was pretty limited. Even with a twenty or more round magazine, he could have only taken out a maximum of four to five people in the front row, the captain, his sister, Ruth, Charlie, and the lady cop, Officer Benevidez. Plus those seated behind you and to your left, Charlie,” DuPree said.
“So did the sniper’s position determine the targets, or did the target determine the position selected by the sniper?” Gordon asked.
“Either way, if killing one of the heroes was the objective, the attack succeeded,” Nancy said. “We have to…”
The sound of an amplified voice coming from the west end of the park drowned out the rest of her comment.
“We are under attack, fellow Americans,” came the angry words. The cheers and shouts from the crowd echoed across the park.
“That’s Ed Humphrey, the state senator,” Gordon said, “the mirror image of an Islamic extremist. This is his district, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, and he’s up for reelection,” Charlie commented. “I’m glad he’s on our side … kinda. Humphrey says exactly what the undereducated want to believe, and they follow him like ants to sugar.”
“If this attack was really the work of a lone-wolf terrorist and not some local nutjob, old Ed is certainly going to get more traction, even among the moderates. Targeting the heroes who’ve gone the extra mile for community and country pisses off all Americans,” DuPree said.
“The people who hate America can’t beat us this way,” Gordon affirmed.
“Or on the battlefield. But attacks like this will continue to fuel the fight between the political parties, where power and partisan control trumps unity,” Charlie said. “Hopefully this won’t all blow up in our fac
es. Our politicians feed on these incidents.”
“Agreed. Not even freedom of speech is free anymore. But enough of that. Today we need to close our ears to the posturing and just do our jobs,” Nancy replied. “Hunt down this killer before he strikes again.”
“God’s ears,” Gordon said.
DuPree suggested that they walk over to where the shooter was positioned to get a quick look from that perspective, and see if any new ideas or insights came to mind. Five minutes later, they’d merely confirmed what was already known. Charlie, having observed with a chill that Ruth had been in the center of the field of fire, decided to look in other directions, trying to determine how the sniper had escaped.
He turned and looked into the graveled alley behind the location. It ran parallel to the street on this side of the park, dividing the block of new, middle-class homes along the rear of each property. Only a few had any kind of fencing, mostly split cedar walls standing six feet high that gave backyards some privacy. The houses on either side of the shooter’s position had chain-link fencing, about four feet high. The residence to the left of the pole was unoccupied, with a FOR SALE sign out front in the dried-up lawn. The area around the utility pole and down the alley in each direction for the length of both lots had been blocked off by more yellow tape.
“Did you get any vehicle tracks or find any residents who saw what the shooter was driving?” Gordon asked, also taking in the scene.
“Only tire impressions in the gravel,” Nancy answered. “There were a few spots farther down the alley toward the intersecting streets where actual tread marks were photographed, but we don’t even know if the shooter was parked along the alley or came in on foot.”
“We interviewed the residents for this block, and those in the next block in both directions, and nobody recalls a vehicle in the alley. Of course most of them were in the park watching the dedication ceremony,” DuPree said.
Gordon looked at the space between the houses opposite the park. “The shooter could have parked a block farther south, east or west side, then approached, headed north, between these two buildings. Neither house has a window facing toward their neighbors.”
“But how do you hide a rifle, walking down the street?” Nancy asked.
“A carbine, placed in a golf bag, maybe?” Charlie suggested. “The new municipal course is just three blocks west of here, right?”
“Or maybe the car was parked along the curb, one street over, and everyone was focused on the events in the park,” Gordon ventured.
“And it was getting darker by the minute,” Charlie said.
“Guys, we had officers roaming the neighborhood all last night and this morning, trying to find anyone who saw or heard anything useful. Some of the homes have security cameras, and the images for the past week are going to be examined. The park dedication was well publicized, so the terrorist, or whoever, had days to come by and survey the site, making plans on where to position themselves. Depending on how and where the guests were seated, the shooter probably had a backup plan. My people have been checking all around the neighborhood, trying to find out if any strangers had been seen walking the sidewalks or alleys,” DuPree commented. “If anyone saw anyone, we’ll at least have some potential suspects.”
“What if the shooter was a local, maybe even someone over there in that crowd?” Gordon asked, pointing toward where the politician was speaking.
“It’ll be harder then, or maybe easier. We’re going to find out who, in this area, may have immigrated from one of the trouble spots in the Middle East or Africa. Or who traveled to, say, Turkey, within the past year or so,” Nancy said.
“Or what if the shooter was the ex-husband all along, and he’s managed to mislead the investigation? What if this is simply jealousy?” Charlie asked.
“Then we’ll have to sort all that out ASAP,” Nancy responded. “Before the crap hits the proverbial fan.”
“Exactly, which means we have to get back to work. Thanks for coming over and sharing what you know, guys,” DuPree said, turning to walk back toward the park. The others followed.
“I’ve arranged for an increase in patrols on the streets near your shop, Charlie. You and Gordon need to behave as if there’s a sniper out there with you on his list. Keep a low profile,” Nancy added as they stopped at the curb to wait for a KOB-TV van to pass.
As they stepped up the curb onto the pea-graveled walking path that circled the park, uniformed officers were taking down the crime scene tape. The numbered markers and chairs had already been removed, and a few people were moving the flowers and candles that had been placed beside the barrier over to the base of the stone monument.
Reporters from at least two TV stations were standing by as their camera crews filmed the activity, and the crowd that had been gathered around the state senator was passing across the path Charlie and Gordon were taking. The guys decided to wait until the gathering reached its destination.
“Here comes another speech,” Charlie commented as Senator Humphrey positioned himself in front of the monument, in exactly the same position where the mayor had stood last night.
“Hey, you’re Sergeant Henry, Charlie Henry, aren’t you?” an overweight Anglo man in slacks and a camo jacket yelled out, stepping away from the crowd toward Charlie. “You were here last night, nearly got shot by that diaper head, right?”
“So you saw the shooter?” Gordon asked, a touch of sarcasm in his tone.
It didn’t register with the man. “No, but crap, didn’t you hear the news? Damned Muslim left a note at some school taking credit. Said they’re just getting started. We’ve got to run those people out of here once and for all, then nuke Syria or wherever the hell they’re hiding.”
“You think Senator Humphrey has a plan?” Gordon ventured.
“Damn straight. We’ve got to kick ass, not just take names. Too bad you didn’t kill them all over there in Afghanistan, soldier.” He looked at Charlie, waiting for a response.
“You serve, pal?” Charlie finally asked.
“Wish I coulda. Bad back kept me outta the Army. But I’m well-armed, and if any of them A-rabs show up on my street I’m going to smoke them quicker than shit. Thanks for your service, Mr. Henry,” he added, holding out his hand.
Charlie took it reluctantly, limiting the shake to a light squeeze. “Thanks. Just keeping it real, sir. Seriously.”
The man nodded, then turned away toward the crowd and ducked his head as the senator started his presentation with a prayer.
Charlie motioned to Gordon. “Let’s get the hell out of here before anyone else spots me. I’m not in the mood.”
“Yeah, and if they’re all intellectuals like Beer Belly, you’re outmatched anyway,” Gordon said. “The further they are from reality, the tougher they talk.”
“Fortunately most Americans can still think for themselves, Gordon. I’m just hoping we’ve seen the last of the shooting.”
“The only thing that’s going to settle things down again is catching the sniper.”
“Yeah. Especially if he’s really out to kill the heroes. You could be next, pal,” Gordon said, glancing down the long line of vehicles waiting beside the park as they approached his pickup. “But don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”
“And I’ve got yours,” Charlie responded, then he took a look back at the crowd listening to the politician. “But what about Dawud Koury?”
Chapter Three
“Hadn’t thought of him, but you’re right,” Gordon responded. “He and his family live just a few miles north of here. But they’re Christians.”
Dawud Koury had been their local interpreter in Afghanistan, and had accompanied them on most of their operations. The man had risked the safety of his own family to save their lives in more than one violent encounter, and they, in return, had helped him and his family immigrate to the US. Dawud, his wife, and their two children were now US citizens, attempting to assimilate.
“They’d be dead by now if they hadn’
t been allowed to enter the US,” Charlie said. “Last time I was in their shop, he and his wife were keeping a low profile after vandals had done some damage to the place.”
“The same thing happened to the Japanese Americans during World War Two,” Gordon reminded.
Charlie nodded. “Let’s go back and listen to what Humphrey has to say. Maybe he’s going to think before he speaks this time.”
“Yeah. But keep an eye out for unicorns,” Gordon said.
When they arrived, the state senator was talking about the guests at the ceremony, focusing on those who’d been shot. Charlie listened as Humphrey described how Captain Whitaker had landed his Army helicopter under heavy ground fire more than once to recover wounded soldiers and Marines. Whitaker and his crew had received commendations on three different occasions. Just over a year ago, Captain Whitaker, now a civilian, had created a local company called Back Up. The specialized employment agency found jobs for vets, locating sources for full-time and temporary work in a variety of positions around the metro area. Back Up temps worked mostly day labor, construction, clerical, and delivery work, Humphrey explained.
Microphones had been set up on a metal stand, and Charlie knew that Humphrey’s words were going to be broadcast nationwide before the day was over.
Before long, Humphrey began to speculate on the attack, adding that if a local Muslim or other radical was indeed the shooter, everyone should be vigilant. It could happen again, and the shooter might be one of their neighbors, someone secretly full of hate for America.
“Here’s where it’s going to hit the fan,” Gordon whispered to Charlie, standing next to him.
“You can’t trust those ragheads,” came a shout that sounded like the same guy who’d encountered them earlier. “Send them back home along with the wetbacks!”
Cheers and shouts erupted from the crowd, along with several boos as well.
“Let’s not resort to insults, sir!” said Humphrey. “We’re better than that. But I understand your anger.”
“Hypocrite! Does every fool in the state support your racist policies, Senator?” came another loud voice.
