[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  The Champion went down in the eighth round after he stuck his chin into a carefully chosen left hook. Sam thought it looked fairly real. The new champ was crowned, and the crowd began to leave. Sam rode the elevator to his floor and picked up the directional receiver from under the bed. It showed the car heading up the strip toward Caesar’s Palace. He next pulled out the frequency checker. Nothing on the band he was using. Good. He placed them both in the gym bag and headed for his car.

  The boys were at The Mirage this time. He watched them from the blackjack table as he had before. The bets were bigger tonight. Obviously, the man had lived up to his name regarding the fight. Their rowdiness soon drove the other players away and attracted some additional security. Sam left and went to his car. He traced three different routes back to the hotel, but all of them had crowds and traffic. This guy was flying out the next day. He had to find something soon.

  Sam sat at a red light and fought back a pain in his gut. He was running out of options.

  “Dumbass!” he yelled at himself. The answer was obvious.

  Sam proceeded down the Strip to Tropicana Ave. He then turned left and followed it out past the carwash and on to the airport. About a mile from the airport, he ran into a construction zone. Traffic was forced across the median and into one lane with a concrete barrier on one side and a mile of orange barrels on the other. The other lane was stripped down six inches and roughed up for re-paving. Some crew worked under klieg-lights, but otherwise the area was empty. Sam exited the work zone and drove on to the airport. He then made a U-turn and drove back past the same spot. The timing would have to be perfect, but it would work. It had to; it was his only option. Tomorrow was Saturday. Did the crews work on Saturday? They didn’t in Michigan. He’d have to play it by ear and hope they didn’t here as well. He drove the route four more times with his eyes on the odometer and his watch. It was going to be really tight, but this was the best idea he had come up with yet. He needed one more bit of information, and for that he needed the Internet.

  Sam spun the wheel and turned back toward the hotel.

  The state of Idaho holds 5,887 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 3,994 are repeat offenders.

  —TWELVE—

  Sam was tired. After returning to the hotel last night, he had used his laptop and looked up every flight to Los Angeles that he could find for the next day. There were several and he didn’t know which flight Profit planned to be on. He’d then listened till 3 a.m. on the microphone till he fell asleep.

  He woke up when the phone rang at seven, the machine voice telling him to have a pleasant day in Las Vegas, and thanking him for choosing the Tropicana Hotel. After silencing the phone, he slipped the headphones on and listened. Not a sound came from the room. Had they left already? Had he missed his only chance? Sam cussed himself for falling asleep.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a toilet flushing. They were still there! He could hear a door being shut and some quiet voices. Someone started snoring. Good, it wasn’t the maid, and he still had a little time. Sam slid one earphone off and grabbed the phone. After ordering breakfast, he quickly packed his bags and disassembled everything but the laser. He would have to move fast once he knew they were leaving. Despite his stomach, he had ordered a pot of coffee. He had to stay awake. Dr. Maher would not be pleased, nor would his stomach later. But like he had been told in the Army: Mission first; welfare of the men second.

  Three hours later, Sam heard the phone ring. A 10 o’clock wake-up call. The snoring stopped, and several voices could soon be heard. An hour after that, breakfast had been ordered, delivered, and eaten. Showers had been taken. Money had been counted. Hookers sent packing. Hangovers were being nursed. Finally, Sam heard what he had been waiting for.

  Mooky was sent for the car.

  Sam quickly packed the tripod and laser in the golf bag. Slinging it and his carry-on bag over his shoulders, he left the room for the elevator. The ride down was agonizingly slow, but Sam walked casually to his rental car. After loading the bags in the trunk, he transferred the gym bag with the three radios into the passenger seat. He flipped on the directional radio as he pulled out onto Tropicana Avenue. The signal changed aspect as he passed the MGM. He was ahead of Profit and his boys and found a parking spot in front of a dry cleaner where he could wait. When the signal of the tracer began growing stronger, he knew Profit was on his way. As the car appeared from the west, Sam switched off one radio and switched on another. He let the car pass before pulling out behind it. He checked the plate number against the one he had memorized the night at the strip club: it was the right car. He stayed behind them until they were close to the construction zone. Accelerating past, he caught a glimpse of the man himself dozing in the passenger seat. Sam preceded them into the one-lane traffic and slowed to a pace slower than the car in front of him. As he watched the gap between himself and the car in front widen, he noticed a dump-truck had fallen in behind Profit’s car in his mirror. Good. Sam looked down at the frequency checker in his passenger seat. Nothing. With another glance at the traffic behind him, he powered on the RC radio. Right about now.

  Sam accelerated quickly to widen the gap. Mooky was hung over and a little slow, but he soon sped up to follow. The dump truck did not have the gears to keep pace, and soon there was a sizable gap among all three cars. When the gap reached about forty meters, Sam advanced the throttle stick on the remote. Another ten meters . . .

  Sam looked in his mirror and kicked the rudder stick to the right full.

  • • •

  Hector had been driving this dump-truck for three years. Vegas was growing at a record pace and he was earning a good living. Hauling dirt from site to site was boring, but it paid well. This was his last run before lunch, and he was hungry.

  He forgot about his stomach when the black car he had been admiring in front of him exploded, leaping into the air only to land and began grinding against the concrete barrier. He barely managed to get his truck stopped before crashing into the damn thing. He sat and stared for a moment, before the burning gasoline began creeping toward his truck. He pulled off over the drop between two barrels and parked thirty yards past the car to get out of the thick black smoke pouring from the wreck. After getting out his small fire extinguisher, he looked back at the car. It was fully engulfed. He threw the tiny red bottle back in the cab and reached for his dispatch radio.

  • • •

  Three sticks were enough—more than enough, Sam thought as he sped on to the airport. The car had literally left the ground and impacted the wall before it landed and began carving a groove in the concrete. Hell of a fire, too. Sam had not really expected a fire; he had been told that was movie stuff. This car was definitely burning, though. Bonus. Sam smiled as he pulled into the rental lot. Nobody could have survived that. Profit was history. Sam re-packed his gym bag. After turning in his rental car, he found a large locker in the terminal. He stowed his bags, except for the carry-on, and wandered down the terminal until he found a bar with TVs hanging from the ceiling. Halfway into a victory drink he saw an aerial view of the burning car being hosed down by firemen. The paramedics were standing off to one side. They didn’t even have their equipment out. The talking head rambled on for a few minutes, saying nothing but speculation. Sam looked around the bar before pulling out his cell phone.

  “Hey?”

  “How’s it going?” Paul asked cautiously.

  “Shitty. You?”

  “Same.”

  “Watching TV?”

  “No, why?”

  “Maybe you should. Call you later.”

  “Right.”

  Sam finished his second drink, left a few bills on the bar, and walked back to the locker. After retrieving his bags, he made his way to the rental car section. Using a second set of identification papers, he was soon on his way in a new Jeep Cherokee back toward the Strip. He took an alternative route this time, as traffic was still backed up on Tropicana. He stopped
at a mini-mall parking lot to drop four envelopes in the mailbox. One was addressed to Profit at his room at the MGM Grand. Attn: Jack Randall was printed at the bottom in plain block letters. The other three went to newspapers, including one addressed to a reporter at the Orlando Sentinel. He decided to stay at Caesar’s Palace; he liked the high traffic.

  After checking in, Sam watched TV coverage of the scene for as long as he could. The coffee soon wore off, and he fell asleep. His body would keep him there until the next morning.

  • • •

  Jack spent Sunday afternoon with his wife. They had enjoyed a late breakfast out, and were now driving toward the shore for some time away. Jack tried to listen as his wife went on about somebody’s new house and who they had hired to decorate it, but his thoughts kept returning to the case. The boss had agreed with him about the shooter’s skill and with his theory on the letter. Deacon had promised him a full crew and one of the new Gulfstream jets the Bureau had obtained. A joint operation with the DEA had recently netted some big names in the drug trade, and a few jets were seized. They now had a small fleet. They were even nicer than his father’s company jet, which he still had access to but rarely used. The pieces were in place, all they were doing now was waiting.

  They were only ten miles from their goal when his pager began beeping. His wife’s happy face immediately changed to one of disgust. He twisted around and pulled the seat belt up so he could read it without taking it off his belt. 888. Report for a mission.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said.

  “Me too,” Debra replied. “Are we ever going to have any time, Jack?”

  “I’m trying, honey. It’s just the way it is. The bad guys pick the time table. You know I can’t control that.” He swung the car into a parking lot to turn around.

  “You owe us some time, Jack. You promised.”

  “I know.”

  Debra turned and rested her head against the window. Jack picked up the cell phone.

  • • •

  Sydney was stretched out on her leather couch in the dungeon. She had awakened in the same spot five hours ago, and gone down to the gym to change. Hoping a few miles might clear her head, she had changed into her running shoes. The run had only postponed the inevitable. Now showered and fed, she was refreshed and back in the office, her mind still on the case. She eyeballed the stack of paper on her desk. Should she go through it again?

  She was just dozing off when a strange noise woke her. A buzzing-rattle. It stopped. She sat up and looked around. It started again. She got up and walked to her desk. Behind the mountain of paper, her pager was trying to walk off the desk. She snatched it up and looked at the number. 888. Shit. She was reaching for the phone when it rang.

  “Lewis?”

  “Syd, it’s Jack. Thought I might find you there. Our shooter is at it again. Only this time he’s blowing them up. We’re going to Vegas. The car that blew up there yesterday has been claimed by our guy. I want you and your crew ready to go as soon as possible. Same departure point. How long do you need?”

  “An hour?” She hoped.

  “Take an hour and a half; I’m driving in from the beach. Have somebody grab my jump-bag out of my office, will you? I’ll meet you on the tarmac.”

  “Okay, Jack. Anything else?” She was already scribbling out a list.

  “No, I’m sure I’ll think of something as soon as I hang up, but just get your people ready for now. I’ll see you in about an hour.”

  “Okay,” she told a dead phone. He had already hung up. A car blew up in Las Vegas yesterday?

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later, she was going over the equipment with her crew. She had her print kit out and was inventorying the contents and trying not to think about Jack.

  First her powders. She carried the normal black, gray, and white, plus a couple of exotics—colors she found to work better on certain materials and surfaces. A red and an orange/yellow shade she found worked best on fiberglass. Then there were the fluorescents. They were used for difficult or multicolored surfaces. A fluorescent powder only showed results under ALS (Alternative Light Source) or ultraviolet light. Depending on which she was using, she would need some special goggles to go with them. She confirmed the lights were in their cases and stowed properly. Under the fluorescent powders were the magnetic powders. They required special brushes and wands.

  What was his wife thinking every time they had to leave on a case? They had met a couple times at FBI functions, and evidently Jack had confessed to their past. Debra had been polite but cold. Not that Sydney had expected her to be nice, but . . .

  Lifting tape. She had several sizes and types. These were usually wide and had low-tack adhesive strips that were neither affected by oils, nor by most chemicals. Based on the information they had so far, she decided to double her inventory. Sydney preferred to use tape which had the card and tape combined into one unit. Since black was the color most often used, she had mostly white cards. She was always careful to take cards for every color—just in case.

  Next were the rubber lifters. They worked well at pulling prints from uneven or curved surfaces. Silly Putty, it was better than tape. The problem was the print was then shown in reverse. So the print would then have to be re-lifted or photographed, and then flipped back to its original orientation. What they needed was a transparent lifter, they always joked; such item would be impossible to obtain.

  Was the two of them working together causing Jack problems? The FBI had rules about relationships within the Bureau, but nothing about ones that were years in the past. That didn’t mean his wife didn’t have her own rules. She didn’t want to cause problems for him, but she didn’t want to lose her job either.

  “Focus,” she told herself.

  Brushes. Prints were delicate and required a gentle hand. Sydney was picky about her brushes. She checked them all—fiberglass, feather, natural bristle. She needed a new camel hair, but there was no time. The Las Vegas crew was headed by an old classmate. She would steal one from her.

  Printing ink. Although she was sure the deceased had been printed already, she still inspected her rollers and made sure she had plenty of standard ten-finger cards.

  She next cracked her camera cases. She had four. One a special print camera, the second a standard 35 millimeter with all the bells and whistles, the third was a high resolution digital which she had grown to love, and the fourth was her trusty Polaroid. All had new batteries, along with extra film or memory cards. Since the scene had been worked already, and the vehicle and the bodies all removed, she elected to leave the video camera behind. The plane could only hold so much.

  She had thrown some Petri dishes in the bag last week when they returned from Florida. She placed these over items or prints she couldn’t move yet, but were threatened by the elements. They also worked to keep people from stepping in the wrong spots. She threw some rubber bands around them to keep her kit tidy.

  The rest of the box contained casting and molding supplies, mixing containers, and distilled water. A small man’s shaving kit held her tweezers, chopsticks, and other manipulating tools. She checked her iodine, silver nitrate, rulers, Sharpies, protractors, sketching materials, numbering markers, and another small bag holding her cyano products. These were chemical print-developers that they used to fume the prints. Usually, she used them in the lab, but every once in a while, it was necessary to do it on-scene. She also carried the portable containment unit.

  “It’s been years,” she muttered to herself. “She’s just going to have to deal with it.”

  “What?”

  Sydney looked up to see one of her crew with a questioning look on their face.

  “Nothing.”

  The next bag contained items she hoped she would never have to use. Her PPE, or Personal Protective Equipment: a one-piece zip-up suit with a hood and built-in booties. It was made by Dupont out of Tyvek. The same stuff they used to wrap houses in to windproof them. Worn with a mask and gloves, it w
ould protect her if she had to deal with any hazardous materials at a crime scene. It also made her look like a cross between the Pillsbury Dough Boy and the Michelin Man. She hated the thing and felt like she sweated off twenty pounds every time she wore it.

  “Hello, I’m Special Agent Sydney Lewis of the FBI. I specialize in forensics and home wrecking!” She was sure not to think out loud this time.

  Next came her flashlights. The regular one she always had on her belt with UV, red, and blue lenses. These, she kept in a roll-up kit she had bought at Sears, which had been originally designed for a set of wrenches. She also loaded her personal headlamp, something the Bureau did not supply.

  Her trace evidence kit was next. She raised her evidence vacuum over her head to keep it clean as possible and powered it on. The batteries were good, and she had extras. The filters were there and still sealed. She gently shook a new box of slides. Everything sounded intact. The envelopes, bindle paper, bottles, paper bags, plastic bags, and boxes, had all been restocked. Another bag revealed a variety of cutting implements: a saw, several knives, pairs of scissors, and a small electric drill.