by Marcus Sakey
It’s amazing, Brody thought, what someone with a sense of theater and a rifle can do to civilization.
On September 19th, four people were murdered in two hours.
Jerrie Simpson, a nurse and mother of three, had been playing Candy Crush and waiting for the El. She probably hadn’t even heard the shot.
Michael Dillman, on the other hand, lived for almost ten minutes. The 911 tape of his wife begging for help had been replayed ceaselessly.
Larry Wong was pumping gas into his taxi when a bullet tore open his throat.
Dr. Riya Kumar was enjoying a few moments reading on a fine fall day. If a patient hadn’t cancelled on her, she’d still be alive.
There was no connection between the victims. No connection between the thirteen killed since. The sniper had published no manifesto, issued no demands. He hadn’t taunted the police or sent cryptic messages to the news. He—recovered DNA confirmed it was a man—had not been claimed by ISIS or al-Qaeda or white supremacists. If he was a terrorist, he didn’t have a cause.
He just killed and vanished.
Maybe the terror is the cause, Brody thought. If so, he’s winning. He’s remade my city in his image.
“Everyone,” he said, turning to the crowd, his credentials high. “I’m Agent Will Brody of the FBI. Did anyone see anything?”
The people looked at one another, looked at him, looked edgily at the skyline.
“Anything at all out of the ordinary. A car or a truck driving too fast. A window washer who didn’t look right. A puff of smoke.”
“I saw her fall,” a woman said. Her fingers worked each other like prayer beads. “We got to the door at the same time.” Her eyes suddenly wide. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Ma’am?” Brody stepped toward her. “What did you see?”
“I . . . we got to the door at the same time, and I told her to go ahead.” Her voice was manic, the words tumbling out almost atop one another. “She smiled at me, and I told her to go ahead. If I hadn’t, would I . . . would she . . . I didn’t know this was going to happen. I was just being polite. I didn’t know—”
“It’s not your fault.” Brody touched her shoulder. “You didn’t do this.”
An ambulance screamed into the lot, the doors winging open. The cop astride the woman stood up. His trousers were soaked in blood, his hands dripping red. Two EMTs rushed over, one holding a resuscitator, the other pushing a gurney.
Brody knew they were too late. The woman was gone. Whatever hopes she’d cherished had been stolen. The little moments that made up a life were no longer hers. She would never finish the book she’d been reading. Never call her mother. Never enjoy the Sunday Times, eat sushi, check e-mail. Five minutes ago she had been a person. Now she was nothing.
“How is this happening?” Sokolofsky’s face was pale.
“Start collecting names,” Brody said. “No one leaves until they’ve been interviewed.”
The pudgy cop nodded.
The air reeked of exhaust and the copper tang of blood. More police cars were squealing in. Helicopters hovered like dragonflies. The EMTs had transferred the woman to the gurney and were pulling a sheet over her.
Brody walked to where she’d fallen, scooped up her purse from the pile of groceries. The interior was a jumble of everyday objects, a life writ small: sunglasses and iPhone and keys and a Clif Bar and chapstick and gum and hand sanitizer and headphones. He took out her wallet. The driver’s license had her name as Emily Watkins. In the photograph, she wore a coy smile, equal parts mischief and warmth. It looked practiced, a stock expression she probably pulled out whenever a camera was pointed her way. Her phone was locked, but he’d bet if he were to scroll through the photos, she’d wear the same smile in most of them. The address was on Aberdeen, two blocks from Morgan. They’d been neighbors.
In the five minutes since the shot, the parking lot had become a riot of activity. Officers spoke to witnesses, hoping that this time, someone, anyone, had seen something. A ring of cops held back a crowd of spectators, most of whom had their phones out, recording Emily’s body being loaded into the ambulance. Brody never ceased to be baffled, bemused, and frustrated by people’s appetite for ugly. Hey, look, her blood is running into the melting ice cream! Quick, Instagram it.
He shook his head and went to the ambulance. One of the EMTs was inside, maneuvering the head of the gurney. The other was pushing from the back end, but as he leaned in to lock it in place, the stethoscope slipped from his neck. The tech bent to snatch it before it hit the ground.
When he did, the brake light of the ambulance shattered. Which was weird, because the guy hadn’t been anywhere near it—
Brody grabbed the medic’s shoulders and hurled him sideways, the man’s face contorting in surprise just as the sound waves of the sniper’s shot caught up to the bullet. The tech stumbled, tripped, and sprawled to the ground. Brody followed in an awkward dive. Something whipped through the air behind him, a screaming hum like a furious bee, the second bullet missing by inches, the crack arriving a fraction of a second afterward, a distant echoing report. He hit gracelessly and hard, but the pain was far away. Someone started screaming, and the gawkers began to shove and jostle and drop. Police knelt behind their squad cars, pulling weapons and staring in different directions. The medic was scrambling like a crab, his back to the tire, good, he was out of the line, which freed Brody to wriggle forward on elbows and knees, head low as he stared beneath the ambulance—
Rapid flashes of bright light in the distance, onetwothreefourfive, and by the time he’d counted the fifth the first had already slammed into the side of the ambulance with a metal thunk followed by four more. The shots had come from an alley tucked between two squat buildings three or four blocks away.
There you are.
Brody stood and took off at a sprint, grabbing the edge of the ambulance to slingshot himself around it. He circled one police car, leapt onto the hood of another and ran across it, his shoes bonging on the steel. Jumped off that and dashed into the street, the traffic already at a standstill, everyone locked down by the checkpoints, and as he ran between the lanes of cars he caught peripheral flashes of the people within, men huddling beneath steering wheels, a mom in the back of an SUV struggling to unbuckle her daughter’s car seat. It was only now, sprinting down the street, that it occurred to him how exposed he was.
Brody leaned into the run.
A block before the alley he darted between parked cars, leapt onto the sidewalk, then put his back to the building and drew his sidearm, holding it low in two hands. He moved fast, eyes glued to the mouth of the alley. His pulse was racing and he could hear his breath over the sirens and helicopters. Thirty steps, twenty, ten.
Brody blew two fast exhales and spun around the corner, leading with the Glock. A typical Chicago alley, telephone poles and the sweet stink of trash, the ground pitted and pebbled. No one in sight. Three dumpsters, two of them locked shut.
The chain for the third lay in a heap. The lid was open.
Brody checked the angle of the late-afternoon sun, sidestepped so his shadow wouldn’t give him away. Stalked forward, weapon up, finger on the trigger. The dumpster revealed itself inch by inch. The garbage had been shoved to one side, leaving an area big enough for a man to kneel. A collection of ejected brass cartridges shone dull against the rusted metal.
Abandoned amidst them was half a cigarette, the tip still glowing.
A trail of smoke rose, twisting, ephemeral, to vanish into the air.
THREE
Two hours later, Brody stared through the windshield at a five-story building. Once a factory of some sort, it had been converted to condos. New balconies attached to old brick, wide windows with bright curtains. A rack for bicycles. A boutique coffeehouse across the street. He’d never really noticed it, but knew it in a peripheral sort of way. It was on Aberdeen, two blocks from his own loft on Morgan.
He had a headache, and his suit was stained and torn. He wanted to go home
and sit in the shower for an hour and not think.
Instead he got out of the car, walked to the front of the building, and pressed the button marked #411. After a moment, a man’s voice crackled back through. “Yes?”
“Mr. Watkins?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Sir, my name is Will Brody. I’m an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Ummm . . . okay. What can I do for you?”
He hesitated. There were a few moments in a life when everything changed. Intractable moments that divided time into before and after. Chad Watkins didn’t know it, but he was on the cusp of one. Wasn’t there a certain kindness in delaying that, even by a few seconds?
“Hello?”
“Buzz me in please, sir. We need to talk.”
“I don’t understand.” Chad Watkins sat on a vibrant red sofa in the center of his bright living room. Feet on the rug, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. Leaning in with his head slightly cocked. “What do you mean Emily is . . . I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry. Emily is dead.” Brody forced himself to speak in a level, clear voice. He hated the way the words came out, wanted to say “passed away” or “expired,” but one was misleading and the other insulting. Emily Watkins hadn’t drifted off after a long illness. And she wasn’t a carton of milk. Pretty lies weren’t going to shield Chad from anything. “She was shot and killed this afternoon.”
“That can’t be. She has a dentist’s appointment tomorrow.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Wait. This is a joke, right? One of Emily’s pranks. You’re from the troupe—”
“No,” Brody said more sharply than he intended. He took a breath. Fought the urge to look away. What was he doing here? Normally CPD informed the next of kin. But they’d been neighbors, and it had seemed like something he should do. “No jokes.”
“What . . . was it him?” Chad’s eyes went wide. “I got a news alert on my phone that there had been another victim. Was that her? Was that Emily?”
Jesus. Brody sometimes wondered if the reason there seemed to be so many more crazies in the world these days was that they all had a platform. “I’m afraid so.”
Chad stared at him. His hands trembled. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Suddenly he lurched upward, his feet almost tangling in his hurry to stand. Brody rose too, reached out to steady him, but Chad jerked away. He pressed his fingers into his forehead until the tips turned white.
Brody studied him for a moment. Then turned and walked past the sofa toward the kitchen. His eyes cataloged details automatically. A banquet table with artfully arranged knickknacks and a stack of mail. A framed 8 x 10 of Chad and Emily on their wedding day, goofing around downtown, him in a tux, tightroping on the railing of a bridge while Emily threw her head back in laughter, a bouquet clutched to her chest. The exercise bike in the corner had dust on the pedals. An open-frame bookcase was stacked with novels and photography books. An orange-and-white cat dozed on a sunny windowsill, oblivious.
The kitchen opened off the living room, and Brody went to the cabinets by the sink. Opened doors, seeing plates, liquor, spices, finally the glasses. He took out a tumbler and filled it with water.
He returned and held the glass out. After a moment, Chad took it. Lifted it to his lips and drank tentatively, then again. When he set the glass on the coffee table, Brody noticed he used a coaster. “What happened?”
“We’re still investigating. She had just come out of Mariano’s and was on the way to her car.” He hesitated. “It was very quick. She wouldn’t have felt any pain.”
“Why?”
“She was shot in the heart and—”
“Why?” Chad repeated, and Brody realized what he meant.
It wasn’t really “why?”; it was “how?”
How was it possible that when he kissed his wife this morning, he hadn’t known it was the last time? How could something so important pass unnoticed?
How could you spend decades trying to be decent and good, finding someone to love, building a life together, only to have it all taken in an instant?
How could there be no reason?
How could this be the way it worked?
How?
“I don’t know,” Brody said.
They sat in silence for a moment. The clock on the banquet table ticked softly. Brody wondered which had been Emily’s favorite spot. If she preferred the sofa, or if she liked to curl up in the chair where he now sat.
“I don’t believe it,” Chad said. He glanced at his phone. “It’s after six. She should be getting home soon. I’m making Bolognese. We’re re-watching The Wire.”
Brody nodded. He didn’t know what else to do.
“Is there something I . . .” Chad picked up the water glass, then set it down again. “Emily’s body, should I . . .”
“There’s no rush.”
“Why did he choose her?”
“I don’t know.”
“She never hurt anybody. She’s a graphic designer.” Chad rubbed at his eyes. “God, why haven’t you caught him?”
“We will. This is one of the biggest law enforcement task forces in history. There are literally thousands of people working to catch him—”
“Who cares?”
“We’re doing everything—”
“Who cares.” The man turned to him. “What good does it do if you catch him tomorrow? I don’t care about tomorrow.” His voice was harsh, a wounded boxer throwing punches at random. “Why didn’t you catch him yesterday?”
Brody held his gaze. Thought of a dozen answers. Pictured the shattered brake light on the ambulance. Remembered the mother he’d seen trying to unbuckle her daughter from a car seat as he sprinted toward the alley.
“Before I joined the FBI,” he said slowly, “I was a Marine. This was right after 9/11. I wanted to help, most of us did. We had the idea that we could take care of a few bad guys and then everything would work out.” He shook his head. “I knew a lot of people who died. Good people and bad. There’s no logic to it. Or at least, no rules that I understand. Maybe God does, but I don’t.”
Brody set a business card on the glass coffee table and then rose slowly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Watkins. I’m really sorry I couldn’t save her.”
He had reached the door when he heard the man say, “Agent Brody?”
“Yes?”
“Will you promise me something?”
“What?”
“Catch the man that did this. Whatever it takes. You catch him.”
He turned. Chad was staring at his shoes, and Brody waited until the man looked up at him, until their eyes were locked. Tried to put into the gaze all his sympathy and all his regret and all his rage.
Then he said, “Count on it.”
FOUR
Claire McCoy sat in her desk chair and watched a press conference featuring Claire McCoy.
It was now 11:02 p.m., according to the clock in the corner of her laptop. She’d gone in front of the cameras more than three hours ago, but the sniper had the attention of the nation, and given the lack of compelling visuals—footage of the bodies was restricted for privacy reasons—CNN kept running the short clip like it was news. It wasn’t; it was just Claire standing in front of a podium and saying that they were doing everything they could, that the investigation was massive, and asking for calm.
Her phone rang. She stared at it. Lately she’d been developing an unreasonable fear of it ringing. Every time it did, it might be someone calling to tell her that the sniper had killed again.
No, she thought, he’s already had his sacrifice today.
And on the heels of that, Past patterns are not accurate predictors of future behavior. After all, he changed his methods when he hung around to shoot at a medic.
And finally, Stop being an idiot and answer your phone.
“McCoy.”
“ASAC McCoy, please hold for Director Mikkelson.”
“Sure.” Claire
leaned back in her chair. Out the windows, the sky was as dark as it ever got, October clouds lit the color of fading bruises.
On television, murders were solved with brilliant intuitive leaps. Reality was about grinding it out. Investigating every reasonable clue, every flagged tip, every profiler’s hunch. Managing the team, interfacing with other agencies, securing resources, coordinating with local law enforcement, feeding the media enough to keep them from airing wild theories but not so much they overshared. It was the job, and it worked, eventually, but in the meantime—
“Claire.”
“Director, good evening.”
“Nice job on the press conference. Just the right tone, sympathetic, determined.”
“To be honest, for once I wish CNN would say, ‘Folks, this is terrible, but we literally have nothing new to tell you, so just, I don’t know, be good to one another.’”
Mikkelson gave a one-syllable laugh that was all nose. “What’s the interpretation of his attempting a second victim?”
“We suspect he’s losing control. Today’s escalation was a bigger risk than he’s taken before. It also supports the likeliest profile, that he’s former military. Terrorists have been using that method for years: one attack to draw first responders, the second to target them directly.”
“Wouldn’t that also support the theory that he’s a foreign radical?”
“Behavioral Science says no. The feeling is that if there were any group affiliation, he would have been claimed by now.”
“Hmm. Anything else to report?”
“Nothing of note. ERT is still analyzing the rifling, but the bullet is a .223, consistent with previous victims. No prints. We recovered DNA from a cigarette, but of course we already had DNA, just no database match. No witnesses or closed-circuit footage of use . . .”
