[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  The only thing she didn’t open was the file box containing the forms. They had forms for everything. She had gotten tired of worrying about forms, so she had just obtained a box which would hold enough for fifty cases. One less worry.

  “Syd?”

  She looked up. The rest of her team had been watching her for ten minutes.

  “Everybody ready?” She got several nods. “Let’s roll.” She slammed the back gate on the Suburban and hopped into the passenger seat. It would be about twenty minutes to the airfield.

  The state of Illinois holds 43,418 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 29,090 are repeat offenders.

  —THIRTEEN—

  “What are you thinking?”

  Jack looked at Sydney from across the cabin. He had just split up the assignments to his crew, and they all had their faces buried in paper for the last hour. She had the pouty look on her face which she unconsciously adopted when puzzled by what she was reading. She had a pile of photographs from the scene in her lap and was now looking at a map.

  Sydney looked up at him and screwed her mouth into a frown.

  “I can’t really say for sure, but I think your professional shooter isn’t a professional bomber.”

  Jack sat up. “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m looking at this.” She held out a preliminary report from the Vegas office. “It’s a list of the bomb’s materials found at the site so far. It shows batteries, wire, and some electronics, which they traced to a commercial radio control unit. Servos used for model planes. The explosive is C-3 H-5 O-3, that’s regular old dynamite, sold at hundreds of locations in that part of the country to anyone with a valid driver’s license. So far, nothing jumps out at me. The hard part of bombing is obtaining the materials, not making it. There are instructions all over the Internet. This one shows signs of being homemade and of being fairly crude.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Jack did not see where she was going with this yet.

  “This.” She held up the map. “Bombers are like arsonists, or people who tamper with over-the-counter drugs. They’re basically indiscriminate killers. Even if they’re going after a specific target—like our boy is—they’re usually willing to include unknown numbers of bystanders to reach their goal.”

  Jack was still confused. “Well, there were three other people in the car.”

  “True, but look at it this way. Our guy had to have placed the bomb sometime before he triggered it—maybe a day, maybe a week—right? So this bomb is what we call a command detonated device. He triggered it from a remote location, exactly when and where he wanted it to blow. Did the hotel cameras catch anything involving the car?”

  “Hotel security showed the car was parked in its VIP section, and was under camera surveillance the whole time it was there. Vegas P.D. reviewed the tapes. Nobody, outside valets and the victim’s people, were seen near it from the time they checked in. The car did leave the garage at the MGM on several occasions.” Jack searched for the printout. “Says once Thursday night, once Friday morning, and again Friday night after the fight. Plus the final drive to the airport. That’s all the hotel log says. Why?”

  “Let’s assume for a moment that our guy had the bomb in place for a few days prior to the fight. He had to have his target under some type of surveillance so he knew when to trigger. I mean—look at this: the report says the bomb was under the passenger seat, and his crew says he always sat up front, that he didn’t like riding in the back. The bomber knew just where to place it.”

  Jack scoffed. “Like it mattered, Syd. The whole car was destroyed.”

  “Exactly. That’s the other thing that makes me think he’s not a professional bomber: he used too much explosive. If he was more familiar with what he was doing, he would know that placement would not be a factor with the amount he was using.” Sydney searched through the stack of documents in front of her. Larry put down his notebook and listened from across the plane.

  “Look at this.” Sydney was putting her argument together as she spoke. “The lab estimates he used three to four sticks of dynamite—more than enough. But what really gets me is this.” She held up an aerial photo of the bomb site. “The site our bomber used was a construction site: vacant land on one side, a concrete barrier on the other, a boulevard with the nearest traffic separated by the construction. The truck driver says the car was a good fifty yards in front of him when it blew. He doesn’t remember any cars in front of the victim’s. Plus, the bomber did it on a Saturday morning, one of the lightest traffic days and when there were no road workers present. I think our bomber has a conscience. I think he was unsure of the strength of his device, so he planted it under his target and chose this spot to prevent bystanders from being hurt.”

  The plane fell silent as they all looked for holes in her theory. Jack couldn’t see any, and he had to admit that she might be right. His thoughts were interrupted by the fax machine. Larry stretched out his body to reach for the paper and promptly spilled coffee on his pants. He read as he dabbed at the spill.

  Jack looked from the map to the photos and the lab report. “If you’re right, our guy had to be watching from somewhere. The hotels and casinos are full of cameras—somebody has a picture of this guy. Larry, call the Vegas P.D. and see if they can pull any tape of our guys gambling. Ask his crew where they played and get film from those places too. Start with the MGM. Oh yeah, pull the fight tapes, too. Maybe our guy was there. Larry?”

  Jack looked up at Larry. He was reading the fax with a frown.

  “You’re not gonna like this, Jack.” Larry held out the printout.

  Jack took it and examined the cover page. It was from the Documents Department at FBI headquarters. He slowly read the second page and sat back with a sigh.

  “What is it, Jack?” Sydney asked.

  “Our guy left the same message as he did in Florida.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “He didn’t copy it on a machine as we first thought. He wrote it all out again by hand. Documents just proved that it’s the same writer.” Jack shook his head. If it was in admiration or disgust, they couldn’t tell.

  “So?” It was Sydney’s turn to be confused.

  “He knows that people may try to copy him for their own goals when the word leaks out, so he’s using the handwritten messages to prove the work is his. He wants us to get his message without interference.”

  “So we just hope that it doesn’t leak?” Sydney asked. “I don’t understand. I would think he would want it to go public; draw all the attention he could get to his cause.”

  “Yeah, it’s gonna leak sooner or later. If it doesn’t, he’ll make it.”

  Larry cleared his throat. “Uh, Jack?”

  Jack looked over at him.

  “You might want to look at the next page.”

  Jack picked up the fax again and flipped to the next page.

  “Damn it!”

  • • •

  “They won’t hold it?” Jack was on the secure phone to his boss.

  “Are you kidding? If it was just one paper, maybe for a day or two. But three major papers? No way. They’re running with it tonight on the networks, and promising full articles with the letter published, also. We can’t stop them, Jack. Article One, perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Deacon was not pleased, but he knew when he was beat. “At least they honored the policy. We have the letters in the lab. You have what the Documents people turned up. The initial report looks like no prints. Postmark is Vegas, and it came via Fed-Ex overnight. The Post and Times letters had copies of newspaper articles just like the last letter, but the Orlando Sentinel did not. I think our man added them to his mailing list at the last minute. We’re concentrating on that letter, first. It was addressed to the reporter that caught your ugly face at the scene. He put it together. Well, sort of. Let’s just say that he knows what he doesn’t know. His name is Danny Drake. Unfortunately, he wasn’t familiar with procedures on receiving a letter like that.
A half dozen people handled it before his editor called us. The Orlando office is printing those people now. By the way, this Drake guy is on his way to Vegas. Our print guy saw his ticket sticking out of his pocket.”

  “Great. This letter is just gonna stir up trouble, sir. It’d be nice if they waited to print.” Jack knew his job had just gotten a lot more difficult. The case would become a media event, and he would have to address the press just to keep them from inventing the story. Jack realized the importance of a free press, but today’s tabloid journalism often tried his patience. They had made both his investigation and his personal life difficult in the past. He was not looking forward to his wife’s reaction to reporters on the front lawn again. He put that aside for now.

  “Documents tells us that all three letters came from the same guy, Jack. He’s signing his work.” Deacon was steering the conversation away from the press issue.

  “Yeah, we picked up on that too. If we tell the press that, and they print it, it may help discourage copycats. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s too early. We need more information on this guy. I’d like some information that could determine if he has help or not, also, if this is a smoke screen. What if he’s doing this to hide his real target in a group? So far, it’s just been two guys with plenty of enemies. They may even have a connection between them. This gang leader had some big lawyers in his pocket. I’m sure some of them knew, or even worked, with Addicot.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve got Dave working that angle with his crew. Sydney keyed in on something.” He smiled across the plane when her head snapped around. She glared at him. “She thinks our guy is new to bombing.” He went on to explain her theory.

  “She may be right. It’s certainly something to keep in mind. I have to go, Jack. The Director wants to hear what we have, and the press secretary needs to be briefed. You’re under the scope now, Jack. Do us proud.” Deacon hung up.

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said to himself. He looked up in time to see Larry down a fistful of antacid. It wasn’t a good sign, but Jack couldn’t really blame him. The plane’s nose dropped as they descended toward Vegas. At least it was warmer than DC.

  “Can I get some of those, Larry?”

  • • •

  DVR was the best invention ever made, Paul decided. He was watching one channel while recording two others. He had watched the coverage of yesterday’s bombing in Vegas. The talking heads and their resident experts had dubbed it a move by an opposing gang, or possibly a strike from inside the victim’s own organization. Only one network had gone on and given the viewers a brief biography of the man—and it was not a very favorable one. In the end, the story was reported briefly, and then they moved on to the next piece of news for the day, usually another crime or some celebrity dirt. It was amazing what the media deemed important.

  This all changed when the letters reached the papers and were shared with their affiliate parent companies. It was the top story tonight, and now Paul could see repeat tape of the scene in Florida on one channel, while the other had shots of the bomb site in Vegas. Sections of the letter were read, but the copy was not shown.

  “Thank you, FBI!” Paul said as he turned up the volume.

  He watched until all the networks had moved on to another subject. He would try to catch the evening political talk shows. That was where they hoped to really get peoples’ attention. The host would interview senators and congressmen and hammer them on the subject. Paul thought their goal would ultimately be won or lost there. He picked up the remote and consulted his TV guide. After programming in all the shows he wished to record for Sam, he got up and headed out to his garage. He had work to do.

  Paul was a handy guy. Good with his hands and the possessor of an analytical mind. As a result, he could make all kinds of things. Such a man was usually the owner of a vast quantity of tools, and Paul was no exception. Today, he had a project to make which required some skill.

  Out in the barn, Paul pulled a small box from under a workbench. Inside, he had a disassembled Ruger .22 semi-automatic pistol with a blued finish and wood grip. He picked up the barrel and moved to his metal lathe. Sam had told Paul specifically about his choice of .22, and Paul had seen the wisdom of it when he looked it up on the Internet. The Ruger MK-678 was a small, easily concealed weapon which had one important difference over its competitors: it came with a 6-7/8” barrel that was round. This allowed the modifications that Sam needed done to be made with much less difficulty. Paul had removed the front sight yesterday. And now the barrel was ready to be turned.

  Paul set the barrel on the lathe and performed his usual one-minute search for the chuck key. After tightening the chuck down on the barrel just enough to hold it in place, he slid the tail-stock up to meet the business end of the barrel. The tail-stock held a centering fixture he had machined up yesterday to fit the barrel. This would be necessary to accomplish two things: it would hold the barrel perfectly straight, yet also provide enough clearance for the tool to machine the very end. He then produced a dial indicator and set the magnetic base on the tool rest. The needle was rested against the barrel, and he turned the lathe by hand and gently tightened the chuck until the needle no longer moved with each spin. The tail-stock was then tightened down, and the barrel once again spun a full three-hundred and sixty degrees. The needle remained in place. Paul was now ready to turn.

  He powered up the lathe and adjusted the RPM to the appropriate speed. Another pause while he located his bottle of turning oil and a set of safety glasses that weren’t too scratched up. Paul quickly had the barrel turned down to a diameter of .600. He rotated the tool rest and proceeded more slowly to a diameter of .500. He paused to let the metal cool and got himself a drink; the smoke from the oil cooking on the hot metal had always made him a little nauseated.

  Paul looked over his work while sipping a Coke. He was ruining this barrel for accuracy, but then again range would not be a real problem. Sam had called it a “Hush Puppy.” Like the shoemaker. Said they had been used in Vietnam to silence dogs without alerting their owners. Well, his would be a crude copy based on a sketch Sam had made and Paul had refined. The principles were the same. Paul understood what he was making. It was just his first time. It was also highly illegal, but they had already crossed that bridge.

  After making some careful adjustments to the lathe and consulting his old machinist handbook, he began a series of turns to place threads on the barrel. Half-sixteen threads, they had to be perfect in relation to the bore. If the angle was off—even if just a little—it would be time for a new barrel. Paul took his time and checked the needle gauge after every pass. When he felt he was deep enough, he turned off the lathe and blew the barrel clean with an air hose. The barrel showed a shiny set of threads from the tip back about three-fourths of an inch. He adjusted the RPMs to a very slow speed and picked up a rat-tail file. With the barrel turning, he applied gentle pressure to the first two threads. After a few passes, he again blew the barrel clean.

  Now was the moment of truth. He pulled a thread gauge out from his tool box and slid back the tail-stock. The gauge went on the threads perfectly and spun with moderate resistance until it bottomed out at the end. Paul jiggled the gauge. No movement. The threads were perfect. He removed the barrel from the chuck and took it to his parts washer.

  After a thorough rinsing, he again blew it clean with his air hose. Looked good. If he could, Paul would have shown it to his amateur machinist buddies. But this wasn’t really an option. Besides, he was only half done. He applied a coat of oil to keep it from rusting and set it aside.

  Under the bench, he found a second box with some objects wrapped in the pink-red rags he’d used in the garage. They were slightly wet with oil to protect the pieces from rust. Paul unrolled a six-inch long steel tube from the rags and another of loose parts. The tube showed a 3/8-inch hole in one end, while the other had a hole tapped for half-inch fine threads. This end also had a knurled finish on it for about an inch. Paul gripped t
he knurled end and spun the cap off the tube. The cap was so finely machined that you couldn’t see the seam at the end of the knurled section. The cap spun loose slowly, as Paul could not afford to drop it and damage the threads. Once the cap was off, he set it aside and reached for the pile of parts he had laid out. The parts were simple, and Paul was proud of his design. By using pre-manufactured parts, he had made the job both easier and elegant. All engineers loved simple, clever solutions to such problems, and he was no exception. Paul had purchased a length of ¾-inch stainless steel hydraulic tubing, and a pile of 3/4 to 3/8 reducer bushings from a local supplier. After turning the inside diameter of the steel tube to fit the outside diameter of the tubing down to a slip fit tolerance, he’d then cut the tubing to lengths that allowed him to use them as spacers between the five reducer bushings. By sliding the reducers down the steel tubing, and by placing a spacer between each one, Paul created a series of cone shaped chambers within the tube with a 3/8-inch hole still running down the center. The last inch was taken up by a heavy spring. When the end-cap was screwed down, the spring was compressed and everything was held firmly in place.

  Paul held the assembled silencer up to the light. He could see clearly down the tube. The hole was straight as an arrow and allowed just enough clearance for a .22 round. He walked it over to the bench with the barrel. The two pieces slid together perfectly. This time, he looked down both the barrel and the tube, and was pleased to see the two were in perfect alignment.

  Pulling them apart, he reassembled the pistol and applied the silencer before holding it out at arm’s length. It was heavy. Paul had a hard time keeping a sight picture on the gas can in the corner. But then there was no sight in the front anymore. Maybe he could tack one on the end of the silencer? That might get caught on clothing. Did Sam even need one? He would have to ask him next time he called.