by Randall Wood
“Let me get that for you,” the man offered as he reached for the door.
“Thanks,” Sam replied. They both entered the lobby, and the young man made for the elevator. Sam reluctantly got on with him.
“Floor?”
“Four, please.”
“No problem.” After pushing the button, the man stuck his nose in his Wall Street Journal. Sam looked him over. He was young, and wearing a nice but not too expensive suit, and obviously the first to arrive for the day. Polite, too. Probably a paralegal, or a new associate putting in the long hours, who was too new to have the attitude yet.
The elevator stopped on the second floor, and with a nod the man got off. Sam stepped out into a dark hallway on the fourth floor and quickly toured the rooms. Nobody had arrived yet. He took the stairs to the fifth floor and repeated his search. He noted no new footprints in the dust since his visit yesterday. Good. He moved to the large room in the corner that had windows on the front and sides of the building. The future office of the head cheese had an excellent view of the entire downtown square.
“This will do just fine,” Sam told himself.
He carefully leaned his package against the wall and opened the toolbox. After extracting some items, he returned to the stairwell and descended to the ground floor. Working quickly, Sam placed pennies in the crack of the door on top of the latch. He added them until the space had been filled completely. This was actually a trick that he had picked up years ago in college. It was a way to shut someone in their room that had a door that opened into the room. The pennies wedged the door shut, not allowing it to be opened. One could usually shake the door until the pennies dislodged, and, in the process, provide entertainment for the rest of the dorm. Sam added a twist on this trick by coating the whole mess with Super Glue, once he was done. Anyone using the door would decide that the ancient door fixture had jammed and simply find another exit.
He then turned and tried the fire exit. It opened with a push. The magnet was still in place. The back door had been his first choice of entry, until he realized anyone seeing him using it would immediately know something was wrong. The outside of the door did not have a handle, and it was visible from the windows in the surrounding building’s. He had purchased the suction cup in order to have something to pull with if the front entrance was not an option. After confirming that the alley was unobstructed, he turned back to the interior door and taped a bell to the upper frame. If anyone forced the door he should have some warning.
After ascending the steps and repeating the penny and bell trick to each door, he found himself back on the fifth floor. After propping the door open, he set about building his shooting platform. From the area, he gathered a pair of saw horses and several sheets of drywall.
He assembled a table as far back in the room from the window as possible. On the table, he placed two bags of mortar mix that had been left by the window. These, he punched and shaped into a form that would accept the rifle. He pulled up a bucket of drywall compound to serve as a seat and took up a shooting position without the rifle. The plastic hanging from the window would have to be trimmed back, and he quickly accomplished this with the razor knife. Before he put the knife away, he sliced open the cardboard tube that held the rifle and laid it on the table. From the tool box, he extracted a small spotting scope and placed it next to the rifle. The range card came next, and Sam made updates based on what the scope told him.
He looked around his perch. He could not walk on the noisy floor, once the workers arrived. Everything was in place. His exit route had no obstacles. He did not have to urinate. He had scope adjustments to make, but he needed the sun to be higher first. There was nothing to do now but wait.
The state of Louisiana holds 36,047 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 24,151 are repeat offenders.
—EIGHTEEN—
Jack sighed and looked around his hotel room. He had sent everyone to bed last night, but had been unable to sleep himself. The sun was coming up now, and he was no further than he was last night. The technicians at the lab had changed shifts, so progress was being made. At least he could take some comfort in that. Every surface of the room was covered in files, printouts, and photos. A borrowed laptop allowed him to review the footage from the airport. He tossed a paper detailing the bomb components back on the coffee table, and poured himself another cup of coffee from the carafe on the room service tray.
“I have to stop doing this,” he told himself. “My stomach is going to rot away if I keep this up.”
Jack picked up the document that he kept coming back to: the letter. He read it again for the hundredth time. It was version two, but no change in the text. Why was the man so determined to prove it came from the same source? Did he plan on being copied? If so, was he setting this up so he could take out a specific target and blame it on a copycat? Was it just to confuse them? Throw them off to buy some time? Was the letter legitimate in its claim, or was this man simply fed up with the court system and extracting vengeance? That would narrow the suspect list, he mused. How many people had been screwed by the judicial system? The actions could be a genuine attempt to get some change. Or was there a personal reason?
Jack forced himself to stop creating theories and look at what hard facts could be gleaned from the letter. It was well written. No spelling or grammar errors. The speech and pacing leaned toward that of an educated person. It touched on several points to convey its anger. Someone had researched the subject or knew from firsthand experience the problems with the judicial system.
The part which bothered Jack the most was the use of the word “We” in the second paragraph. “We” obviously pertained to more than one person being involved. But was it two or twenty? Was this an established group which had deviated into murder to press their cause forward? If so, it met the definition of terrorism. Perhaps frustrated members of a reformist or lobbyist group who had decided that changing the system by legitimate means was going too slowly for their taste? This would give reason to the letter even existing. Someone out for revenge would just swing away until he was satisfied or caught, and would have no real need to send the letters.
The letter also said they had acquired the means. That usually meant money. Based on the two killings so far, Jack had to wonder. The rifles had been expensive, but not to the point of needing a large income to obtain. The victims had been watched, but that was also not very costly. The bomb-making materials added up to a decent amount of money, but again, that was not out of reach of the average middle-class income with a little savings. Yet, they included the statement for a reason. Did they mean they had the funds to continue as long as they wished? Just dropping that in to say money was not a problem? Maybe they had a long list of names? The smaller the organization, the harder it usually was to get funding, unless they had a big backer or were wealthy themselves. The possibilities were too numerous at this point.
What about the possession of skills line? Jack had no doubts about that. So far, he was convinced that the killer was a highly skilled marksman, and at the minimum, a good bomber. While the bomb itself may have been crude, the method of deployment showed a tactical mind at work. Sydney’s insight as to its deployment had been backed up by the local bomb squad leader, a former US Department of Defense ordnance disposal man who had been around the block and still had all his fingers. Jack had checked.
This brought him back to another question. A bomber with a conscience was an oxymoron according to Sydney and the behavioral science people. What had she called them? Indiscriminate killers? Not enough bystanders were usually the problem for most bombers. But not to this guy. He actually had planted a tracer on the car to track it to the perfect spot. Was that just to make sure he got his man? Or was it to prevent collateral damage?
The letter also fit the actions so far. The first victim: Addicot. True, he was guilty of perverting the system—no one was going to dispute that. Though technically he had not broken the law. The shooter had made i
t clear with his first shot that you did not have to be a convicted criminal to make the list. Profit had been tried several times, but had avoided conviction. Evidently, this was also enough to make the list. So what was it exactly that had pissed off this shooter, and possibly his friends, to get them to do this? Most of all, who was next on the list?
Jack flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes. The coffee was doing a job on his stomach. Where was Larry with his economy, family-sized bottle of antacid when he needed him? He lay back and forced himself to relax. It still took ten minutes before he fell asleep, surrounded by a bed full of paperwork.
• • •
Unbeknown to Jack, Sydney was likewise surrounded in her room. She had fallen asleep on the paperwork, as she knew she would, and was now sitting cross-legged on the bed with her copy of the letter in one hand, and the other rubbing out the crick in her neck.
Next to her neatly arranged piles of paper was one of her handwritten lists. She was halfway through the stacks, and had checked off four items before she fell asleep. Now, pumped up on room service soft drinks, she was reviewing the mountain of information.
So far, they had identified the make and manufacture of the servos, and all the area outlets which handled that brand for a fifty-mile radius were receiving visitors from the Vegas police. The servos were not traceable by number, so this was on the assumption they had been purchased locally. If fifty miles worth brought no success, Jack would likely expand the search. They expected no success.
The time line still had some holes in it. Some of the crew had said that the car had been washed at one point, but the hotel’s concierge service denied providing the service. They would work to fill the gaps in the line, but most likely the only source of the information they needed had died in the car.
The partial print had turned up no hits. Jack had them run it through the Department of Defense’s data bank, as well as Interpol’s. No answer yet from either, but again they also didn’t expect success there.
Sydney was frustrated. Gathering all the information that the scene provided, and running down every lead until it could be ruled out or lead to another, was ordinary police work. Given enough time and trained people, it would eventually bring results. The problem was their shooter, or shooters, were moving fast. Only a few days had passed since the first murder, and they were still chasing leads from that one.
They needed a break. Just one small thing that could turn this thing around quickly before it snowballed. A good fingerprint, a serial number they could trace, an eye witness coming forward, anything.
Copycats would be the first problem. Don’t like your boss? Take him on a one-way hunting trip. Just leave a copy of the letter for the feds. Your wife’s divorce lawyer pisses you off? Blow him up on his lunch hour. Just leave a copy of that letter in the paper. Most people were not wise to the fact that the press had left out a phrase, and changed the sentence structure of another at the request of the FBI. Copycats would be obvious. They would see this as their big chance and take it. Jack had suggested to the Deputy Director that they announce the changes to the public, but Deacon had not yet answered. The behavioral science people were probably debating the suggestion, and that could take a while.
A knock on her door brought her head around, and she winced as a pain shot up her neck. She threw her pencil down on top of the current file she was in and rose to answer it. A look through the peephole showed Larry’s face smiling back at her. His nose was hugely distorted by the peephole’s fish-eye lens, and she bit her tongue as she opened the door.
“Hey, Larry. You’re up early.” She stepped aside to let him in.
Despite the morning hour, Larry was in a suit. She had never seen him in anything but. A naturally big man, his waistline was getting out of proportion to his frame. He entered the room with a stack of paper in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other.
“Sleeping as well as I am, I see,” he said. “You getting anywhere?”
“Just a sore neck so far. You?”
“Not really. Talked to Dave already this morning, and he said he could spend another week in LA and still not be close to done. The victim had a lot of enemies, but also was well respected by the criminal element in LA. Also by the cops, he said.”
“Say that again?” Sydney cleaned off a chair for him before she returned to the bed. She sat down and crossed her legs.
“He’s the kind of guy the old cops used to call ‘an ordinarily decent criminal.’ Basically, he keeps his criminal activities confined to the world he lives in, venturing outside his element only to gain political favor or to wash his money. Dave says he actually saw a graph which showed the crime rate dropping the more power our guy attained. Like they say in business, ‘consolidation breeds efficiency.’ How can you drink that stuff this early in the morning?”
Caught off guard by his question, she looked down at the can of Mountain Dew in her hand. “I like my caffeine cold; never developed a taste for coffee. Why?”
Larry shook his head and went back to the subject at hand. “Did we get an answer from the heads on whether to release the fact that we altered the press’s copy of the letter?”
“No, not yet. I would think doing so would be the right thing. Why are they waiting?”
“Well, there are two theories. One: our guy wants to communicate in some way, and sending us the rewrites is his way of signing his work. This means that he doesn’t wish to have copycats, and his way of communicating allows him to claim his work in the event of copiers.
“Two: he doesn’t give a crap, or actually wants to encourage copiers with the letters. This could be why he sent them to the press this time. The agenda he states may be legitimate. This could be his way of building a following, a large group of sympathetic people who agree with him, or worse—a little army of vigilantes running around shooting anyone they think got away with something. Which is something that attracts the attention of politicians.
“If we inform the public, we may change his mind about sending us rewrites, and then we have no way to differentiate him from the copiers. What it comes down to is, right now we are chasing one person, or a group of people, who sign their work. If people do start copying, we will know the difference and will investigate them separately. The heads have to put both scenarios on the scale and weigh it politically. Do you risk copiers to improve your chance of getting the original shooter, or do you nip the copiers in the bud and risk losing the link you have with the guy you’re after? Personally, I think you stop the copiers up front. But that’s above my pay grade. Thank God.”
Sydney thought about this as she finished her drink and placed it on the night stand. Clearly, she was not looking at this with Larry’s years of experience. She rubbed her neck some more. Larry had always referred to the Director and his staff as the “Heads.”
“How can you think like that this early in the morning?” she asked with a smile.
“I gotta lot of pent-up knowledge.”
The state of Maine holds 2,013 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 1,348 are repeat offenders.
—NINETEEN—
Sam adjusted his elbows so his bones were in contact with his makeshift drywall table. The rifle laid across the two bags of mortar mix, providing a stable platform. The box stood nearby and open, in case he needed to place the Remington out of view quickly. As the sun rose to light the square below, Sam made note of any flaws in his position which might give him away to anyone below. He had placed himself well into the room, far from the window to reduce his chances of being seen from the outside. The sunlight would neither reflect off his scope, nor would it silhouette his outline against the sky. Sam had always laughed at the shooters in the movies who liked to use rooftops. A rooftop sniper was nothing but exposed. To people in other buildings, to the weather, to the media helicopters, and worst of all, to the person you were aiming at. It was really bad if you had to take a leak. Something the movie hero never had to do.
He focused his scope on a young secretary climbing the steps leading to the courthouse and tracked her head as it bobbed its way up the steps. The scope Sam was utilizing used the Mil-Dot system to aid in range estimation. It superimposed a set of wide posts on the top, bottom, left, and right of the sight picture. The post changed to evenly spaced dots as the lines neared the center. The spaces between the dots were known as milliradians. At one hundred yards, a milliradian, or mil, equaled 3.6 inches. At one thousand yards, it equaled thirty-six inches or one yard. By applying a simple formula—height of target in yards X 1000 / height of target in mils—Sam was able to range the woman’s head at 740 yards. He held the cross hairs on her head as steady as he could, as he tracked her movements, but he was off target more than he was on.
He sat up with a loud exhalation and looked at the trees out in the square. The trees’ leaves showed small but consistent movement. He estimated the wind at five mph at ninety degrees to his shot angle, blowing left to right. No wind would have been perfect, of course, but at least this wind was constant. The wind would deflect his shot by several inches. Since he had to go for a head shot, this wind would be enough to make the difference between a hit or miss at this range. Sam consulted a 3x5 card. It contained ballistic data that he had once memorized, but now needed to help his memory. He dialed in the appropriate number of clicks to account for the drop of the bullet, then making another adjustment to neutralize the wind. He took up his position again and set his sight picture on a bike messenger exiting the building. This time, instead of tracking the man’s movements, he picked a place the man was likely to travel into and steadied his point of aim there. The man entered the picture and left it in a fraction of a second.
Sam sat back again and rested his back against the wall. He was not feeling optimistic. This shot would be one of the toughest he had ever done. The range, wind, elevation, and humidity, were all against him. Not to mention that his target would be moving. It would force him to make what snipers referred to as an ambush shot. Since the range was too great for him to track the target as it moved, as a skeet shooter would, he would have to fix on a point in space and hope his target walked into it. He had two options: One, Ping would most likely pause as he exited the car, giving him enough time for the head shot; and two, he would be led up the steps slowly due to the leg irons, thus allowing Sam to accurately pick the ambush point. Neither shot had a great chance of success.
