by Mark Stevens
Diaz had an easy smile. His “hello, how are you?” greeting was all-American English, not a hint of accent. He was a third-generation native of Rifle. He had spent two years at Colorado State in Fort Collins before coming home to help plump up the family income. The crew greeted her with familiar smiles. Spanish, an underground currency that didn’t allow her to barter, flew quietly.
Diaz had earnest, kind eyes. His skin was creamy brown. He stood with his arms crossed like a confident athlete who had run for an hour but hadn’t broken a sweat. He had powerful forearms and a broad chest in a compact frame. He looked like he could work all day.
“Alfredo hasn’t turned up at home?” said Trudy. “In Mexico?” She tried to make it sound less like an investigation and more like a conversation.
“True,” said Diaz. “They call home every day to see if he’s turned up.”
“Who calls?”
“His brother,” said Diaz. “Tomás. Very worried. He saw him last. They were out fishing early one morning. Somehow they got separated and Alfredo was picked up, taken in a van.”
“Where was this?” said Trudy.
“Glenwood Springs,” said Diaz. “Right downtown.”
Diaz turned to the crew and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Trudy only made out “Alfredo,” “casa,” and “dónde” in the stream of words. One of the women replied softly.
“They live in a mobile home park,” said Diaz.
“And where’s Tomás now?” said Trudy.
Diaz hesitated. “You would know better than me.”
“And Alfredo would have said if he were heading back to Mexico?” said Trudy.
“Tomás and Alfredo were twins. Close twins.”
“And Tomás hasn’t reported it?”
Trudy knew it was a dumb question before she finished it.
“No,” said Diaz. He was kind enough to pretend she was savvy about these matters. “You don’t go to authorities. And since the shooting, even more so.”
“I want to talk to Tomás,” said Trudy.
Diaz turned again to the women and Trudy waited through a rapid-fire exchange. The women looked uncertain.
“They don’t think there’s much to do, except wait,” said Diaz.
“But it’s been two weeks,” said Trudy.
Another fast exchange, the women waiting for Diaz to finish before responding. She sensed a tone of assurance.
Diaz turned back. “No cops.”
“Just me,” said Trudy. She turned directly to the women and somewhere from deep inside her memory the word “solamente” flashed. She tapped her chest.
nineteen:
tuesday afternoon
Chadwick drove slowly. He turned right at Bennett Avenue and north toward the river. He hung a quick left on the frontage road and stopped, the train station straight ahead to the west.
He was agitated about something, maybe her chatting with the reporter. Whether Chadwick thought this was a crazy theory or a worthwhile step, Allison couldn’t read it. The vibe among the cops was sour and black. Chadwick had caught the funk.
The building in question was Glenwood Manor. The architecture was straight mid-1970s. Faux stone, small windows, blocky construction. The manor’s super rode up the elevator with them to the top floor, the sixth. The elevator moved at a speed so slow Allison was sure that it was affecting the time half of the space-time continuum. The super stared at the floor indicator lights as if he was unsure whether four followed three. He stepped into a hall that had all the charm and warmth of a New York City hospital.
“Police have already come by,” he said. He was a tired, rail-thin man with overly-slick hair and a gaunt face that gave him away as a lifelong smoker. His name was Harry Long.
“But they weren’t here for more than a few minutes,” added Long, “And the roof, well, it’s pretty rare to go up there, although we had a company up here doing a patch three weeks ago. We had water working its way in after heavy rains. Never understood a flat roof, never will.”
Long led them down the short hall to an unmarked door, opened it with a shove. The room held mechanical gear. A built-in ladder of ten rungs led to a hatch in the ceiling. “A few of the tenants use the roof for tanning and small parties,” said Long. “Nothing too wild.”
Allison climbed up, following Long’s instructions on how to swing down the hatch door.
The access door brought her up on the southeast corner of the roof. The shooter, if he had been up here, would have perched on or near the northeast corner, the spot closest to the pedestrian bridge and the only corner with a view in that direction.
The roof was surrounded by a low wall about 18 inches high, an ideal height to rest a rifle. Best of all, the only witnesses who could see anything on the rooftop would be higher on Lookout Mountain, a squirrel in a nearby tree or a circling hawk.
The surface was cream-colored and had the texture of medium-grade sandpaper. Windblown refuse from nearby trees and other crud from the sky were scattered about. Bits of trash. Cigarette butts. Black sealant created a three-foot-wide ring around the outer edge, like bad bathtub scum. From a distance, anyway, a man could easily disappear into this blackness, lay low, and scope the bridge.
The roof’s sheeting material was soft enough that it might have picked up a man’s footprint, but only the general shape and not any detail from the tread.
“Does anyone come up here?” Chadwick had followed up behind her. He must have read her mind.
“I come up after storms to check for puddles and once a month or so to have a look around,” said Long. “We had a travel photographer come up here not too long ago—Colorado Western history book he was working on. What he said, anyway.”
Chadwick was a jump ahead of Allison. “How long ago?”
“About late July, I believe,” said Long. “He didn’t end up taking any pictures. Just scouting.”
Would somebody make such detailed plans to take out a politician before they knew they would even make a stop in Glenwood, let alone walk across the bridge? Didn’t seem likely.
“He was legit,” said Long. “I Googled him later. Big ass coffee table books and stuff like that. Cost more than a month’s groceries for one copy.”
Long retreated, said something about a broken toilet. Allison led the way to the northeast corner, setting the pace of a hung-over sloth. Each step produced a muffled crunch. Allison worked to let the moment take over. It was a process of subtraction, of telling every stray random oddball thought to fuck off. There were plenty of thoughts and they all wanted their time at the surface. They all tried to wave flags or do jumping jacks. One after another the thoughts kept flying. She forced her mind to now. To here.
She took a breath, slowed some more.
Chadwick gave her space.
She scanned everything left, right, back—and step. She inventoried each non-roof item—stick, bird poop, dead leaf, recently clipped stick, pine needles, a tuft of hair, most likely squirrel. A gum wrapper, faded and baked into the surface of the roof. A bottle cap, also carrying years of wear.
The black perimeter came into view on the edges of her peripheral vision. Would the shooter have scrambled away quickly? Did he move fast? Drop something? Had he been lying up here? For how long? Did he hide his gun, somehow, until it was time? Did he have a two-way radio? Was someone radioing Lamott’s progress on his walk through town? Relaying a countdown of sorts? Was he lining up the shot?
For how long?
Allison looked up at the pedestrian bridge. This shot was much tighter, cleaner than the one from Lookout Mountain. A shooter would still need a scope but the angle was good and the height—slightly above the target—was perfect. The spot on Lookout Mountain had a major drawback—the issue of stray hikers or joggers who might remember a man or men with a major piece of artillery taking dead aim at a target in the thick of civilization.
This spot offered cover.
Would someone in the apartment building have noticed a stranger with a rifle, rifle case, or any other gear sizable enough to conceal one? Maybe. On the other hand, a couple of avid hunters could rent here so the sight of a rifle case was nothing to get excited about.
“Shots were how far apart?” Allison studied the rooftop, didn’t turn around.
“Three seconds,” said Chadwick. “That was the average, thereabouts.”
In the corner, sitting right on the edge of the light-colored roofing material was a piece of straw, like a bristle from a broom. Maybe the sniper flew off the roof when he was done. Or maybe he brought cleaning supplies with him. Another straw was nearby, its tan woody hue a shade darker than the backdrop. Allison didn’t touch it, but if she had to guess she would say they were synthetic. She pictured the shooter lying up against the corner, shells ejecting, having a plan to conceal the rifle and then also having enough other gear so there was a plausible scenario for being up here in case of a stray sunbather or making-the-rounds super. How much lead time would you want or need to pack up, cover up?
Again Allison studied the pedestrian bridge and spotted a man walking who turned to stop and look over the train tracks. Three seconds between shots? It was enough time for a spotter to call adjustments and pull the trigger, but the spotter would have to be damn good. It was easier to picture one man, shooting solo with a helluva scope.
“Evenly spaced?” said Allison.
“Three close together,” said Chadwick. He had moved closer behind her. “A longer pause, a second longer, and then the final shot.”
Allison flashed back to mid-day Sunday. Bright sun, clear skies. A hawk circling high could have seen Lumberjack Camp and the pedestrian bridge in one turn of the head. Lumberjack Camp was eight miles north and 4,000 feet higher.
Allison lay prone. Her short arms didn’t provide enough height to hold a rifle above the lip of the building but any average-height man would have no such challenge.
Walking slowly back to the rooftop hatch, Allison counted the paces with a normal stride. Thirty three. She wondered if the shooter would have run. If he had taken time to pack his gear. A shooter this good would have been in charge of his heart rate. Experienced, confident.
“You look like you’ve got something,” said Chadwick.
“Maybe,” said Allison.
The grinding hum of the elevator cab offered the sole indication they were moving.
“Where are we going?”
Was that hope in Chadwick’s tone?
The yellow lamps counted down the floors with excruciating agony. Adrenaline gnawed at Allison’s guts. The elevator doors parted like they were made of marble.
Outside, Harry Long sucked so hard on a cigarette that he might be trying to kill it. He was chatting with two women, both approaching senior citizen status if not already there. No doubt Long had primed the pump on the building grapevine. Their chatter came to an abrupt halt as Allison led Chadwick to the northwest corner of the building. Trudy would have known the precise names for the two shrubs at the corner. Allison guessed boxwoods. The shrubs guarded the corner. Each ended a row of three. The green needles were splotched with rust and the trunks grew from dusty hardpack that looked as nourishing as concrete. As landscape decoration, they failed miserably in their role. Allison had the urge to send Trudy on an emergency rescue mission, maybe take them back to their home in the woods. The shrubs were eight feet high. It was possible she’d need a ladder. Allison tucked herself in between the brick wall and the line of shrubs on the north side of the building. There was enough room to move without bothering a needle.
The bullet shell was resting gently like a gold ornament on an outer branch, at eye level.
“Hello,” she said to herself. The moment came with a bit of satisfaction along with all the hard, grim reality.
“One shell right there,” said Allison, emerging from the shrub. “Maybe others. Looks like a .308 to me but that’s just a guess. At that distance, I’d say 165 grains plus or minus 15. I’d check everything on the roof for prints. Were the bullets boat tail?”
Chadwick sighed. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
The lead engines of a freight train rumbled past, heading up the canyon. The growl forced Allison to speak up. She put her back to the tracks and the street.
“I think the shooter used a broom, too, after he was done. There might be a broom up on the top floor somewhere. Check it for prints, too, unless it’s been used lots since the day, you know, since. I can’t say but I think it’ll be a black matte finish on the rifle, nothing reflective, and he probably used flat-shooting bullets to minimize drop. A helluva good shooter and he either knew someone in the building or he had a good ruse to get inside or he figured out the access code to that cheap security touchpad door buzzer.”
Chadwick was already pulling up the square microphone attached to his shirt, asking some lieutenant to respond. “Son of a bitch,” he repeated.
“Can I get a ride back?” said Allison. She had five minutes, she figured, before Cop Nation descended on Harry Long and Glenwood Manor.
“Just let me tell our building super friend over here that his world is about to get turned upside down,” said Chadwick. “And then we can go.”
She was so focused on Chadwick’s words through the train’s rumble that the presence of a third person, suddenly standing so close, almost made her jump.
Duncan Bloom. He looked up the street where the first cop car rounded the turn. Then Bloom looked up at Glenwood Manor.
“What’s going on?” said Bloom. “Are you thinking Lamott was shot from up there?”
twenty:
tuesday afternoon
The story took an hour to write, fingers only a second behind the brain. This one was all Duncan Bloom’s personal observation, of the cops moving like bees swarming to a new hive. All the reporters saw it, but he would be first in getting a solid story up on the website.
The police had gone for forty-eight hours looking in the wrong location.
Bloom couldn’t be that blunt, but close. He was beginning to think of things to do when he was done writing, like use the reverse phone directory and call every resident at Glenwood Manor.
It wasn’t hard to imagine that someone in the building might have been an accomplice, unwitting or not. The investigation was back to square zero, as an old Denver editor liked to say. Bloom always liked the image of a square zero—something you couldn’t picture. It was worse than square one. You were screwed.
When the phone rang, Bloom thought about ignoring it, but that went against every fiber in his reporter bones.
“Go easy.”
DiMarco.
“Just the facts,” said Bloom.
“You can soften them.”
“I don’t write for NBC or the L.A. Times,” said Bloom. “Are you making a hundred of these calls? Think they’ll listen? Can someone tell if the apartment building was even considered, checked, analyzed?”
The edge in his voice surprised him.
“This isn’t that kind of call,” said DiMarco. “You’ll have your chance to ask those questions.”
“Anything on the convenience store and the temporary phone?”
Bloom leaned back in his chair, hit save on his computer, looked around the newsroom. Marjorie Hayes sat up straight, hands poised over her keyboard like the first day of typing class. She stared at a blank screen. White wires descended from her ears to an invisible iPod. She was partial to old-school Johnny Cash.
“Matter of fact,” said DiMarco. “We found him. He’s a big-time fan who wanted a chance to shake Lamott’s hand. Showed us the autograph he got. He was by Doc Holliday’s bar before Lamott went up on the bridge. Took a selfie, as they call it.”
Bloom silently lamented the loss of a lead that he hoped had gone right through
his telephone. “You sure this is an immigration thing?”
DiMarco paused, but not too long. “What are you saying?”
“You focused on the idea that this is immigration-related violence, a hate group or something?”
“We need a suspect first and then we’ll work on motive,” said DiMarco. “How you going to play this?”
“I’m not playing anything.”
“It’s where you give credit—to the woodswoman or to the cops for bringing her in.”
“I think most people care that you’re on the trail,” said Bloom. “The town wants a suspect in a bad, bad way. The whole state. The whole country. Give us something to work with.”
DiMarco paused. It felt odd to have him on the run.
“Believe me,” he said. “Every cop feels the pressure, rookie to chief.”
“Is that why you called, to help me select the attitude in my prose?”
“Just wanted to see if you’re going to keep the editorial page where it belongs,” said DiMarco.
“Appreciate the counsel,” said Bloom. “Maybe if I’m a good boy, at least in your mind, you might owe me a favor down the line.”
“Now we’re dreaming,” said DiMarco.
“Okay, I’ll give you a chance to show this is a working relationship. You know about this dead guy they brought down from the Flat Tops?”
Since the chat with Allison Coil, Bloom had this fleeting fantasy of somehow winding his way to her doorstep, developing a friendly relationship. At least for starters. He was good at being friends first. It wouldn’t hurt to know someone in the hunting and outfitting business. Bloom imagined the chances were pretty close to zilch with Allison since he possessed no horse, hunting, or outdoor skills—but Allison Coil hit that sweet spot between cute and beautiful, with her confidence and toughness binding the whole package together. Didn’t every “woodswoman” crave a city boy?
“Know of the body,” said DiMarco. “Being processed. We’ve checked against missing persons reports and nothing lines up. Going statewide next, see if we can get a bite. Probably a hiker got caught by a storm or zapped by lightning. In fact, I heard something that it might be a mountain lion kill. Wouldn’t be the first.”
