by Randall Wood
He also had to worry about bystanders getting in the way. He could already see a couple of protesters sitting on the steps with their signs, waiting for Ping’s arrival. Sam didn’t wish to hit one of them, or worse, a sheriff or a U.S. Marshall. If they would just leave the damn vest off today, this would be a whole lot easier.
Sam looked at his watch: another hour or so. He was used to waiting. He had waited for days to get a shot before. This was different in the sense that he was alone. No spotter or fellow sniper to watch his back while he scanned for the target. A few bells and some pennies were hardly a suitable substitution, but he had to make do. He still had the challenge of having less than a second to pull off one of the most difficult, demanding, and contentious acts a person could be called on to do. And he would only have one chance to do so. If he shot too late, the target would pass the round. Too early, and all he could hope for would be that he had scared him to death. There was no way to just come back tomorrow and try again. Not to mention his escape would be more difficult this time.
It had to happen today. If Ping survived today, he would survive for at least twenty more years. If found guilty—and this was still an uncertainty, as he did have a California jury—he would then have an automatic appeal if sentenced to the death penalty. The appeals process would go on for years, while Ping and his lawyers, with help from various anti-death penalty groups, would pervert the system with any and all possible excuses to delay his death. This would cost the taxpayers even more millions of dollars and delay closure for all the families.
This shot could be the most important one so far. Sam was placing a lot of pressure on himself to pull it off. If he was successful today, it would give credibility to the letters sent to the press and, hopefully, draw national attention to the problem. The people had to force the government to change the judicial system. The system was clearly not going to fix itself. Someone had to embarrass the politicians into action. It was simple in Sam’s mind. The politicians were there to serve the people. Letting criminals dictate the laws that were there to protect them all was not serving the people. If the politicians refused to do their jobs, then the people had no choice but to protect themselves. Most couldn’t. But Sam could. He had nothing to lose now.
• • •
Leo turned to look at Ping in the backseat of the cruiser. The thickness of Ping’s glasses made his eyes look comically large, giving him the look of a frog in a bottle. Ping avoided the officer’s eyes and looked out the window. He had made this trip many times in the past, and was treated to whichever route the driver chose today. Leo saw the sweat on his jumpsuit. He knew this was the day Ping would meet his fate. Death came for us all, sooner or later, but few deserved to have it inflicted early as did Ping. Leo couldn’t imagine what it must be like to know the exact day and time you were going to check out, or even worse, the exact means. An innocent man might come to terms with it and live before he died. Not Ping. Leo knew the real Leonard Ping. This man in the backseat would count every minute. It would be his first waking thought in the morning and his last thought late at night, every day until that final midnight appointment. Life in prison was more than just a reprieve for Leonard. Prison for Ping was perfect; it gave him the structure his life needed. He had the guards to tell him what to do and when. He was safe from the outside world, a world which he had never fit into. He wanted for nothing that the state could not provide.
• • •
Leo turned away from Ping as they pulled into the square. The crowd had grown slightly larger in the past few weeks as the trial was once again in the press. The signs rose as one as they came within sight of the courthouse.
“Check out the circus today,” he remarked to his partner.
“Yeah, hope they send more uniforms to keep the crowd back this time.”
Leo gave his young driver a look, and the kid caught it.
“Was that one of those rookie things I shouldn’t have said?”
“You’re learning, kid. You’re learning. Pull up between those cones, and don’t forget to bring the keys this time.”
• • •
Sam watched as the cruiser pulled up to the courthouse steps. He quickly took up the rifle and adopted the shooting position. A glance out his non-dominant eye at the trees showed no change in the wind. He took several deep breaths as he tracked the car to a stop. He could make out an older officer in the front passenger seat, and a younger driver. The escort vehicle stopped right behind the first car. The crowd moved in to voice their displeasure, and the uniformed police formed a tight corridor from the car to the entrance. The outline of Ping’s head was barely visible through the side window of the cruiser. The glare from the sun prevented Sam from having a clear view. He watched closely as the senior man exited and slowly scanned the area before reaching down to unlock the rear door. He was standing right where Ping would be when he exited the car, so Sam fixed his sight picture on the man’s head. As Ping placed his legs out of the car and stood, Sam was taking up some of the two and a half pounds of trigger pull required to send the round on its way.
His picture of the back of Ping’s head was suddenly replaced with the face of the driver. Sam quickly let off the trigger and scanned around the man; he had missed his first chance. Ping was now shuffling up the steps between two uniformed policemen with the senior escort from the car leading them. Sam picked a new point based on the location of the leading officer’s head. Ping moved slowly, head down, ignoring the crowd, forced to take one step at a time by the leg irons. The officer quickly moved three steps ahead of his prisoner, his legs now at about the height of Ping’s head. A waving sign blocked his sight for an instant. Two steps. Sam again put tension on the trigger. One half breath and hold. Ping’s head popped into the center of the sight reticle.
The rifle fired.
• • •
What Leo would remember most was the sounds. Somewhere amid the shouting of the protestors and the orders of the uniforms holding them back, Leo heard a sound he had not heard in years, a wet slapping sound that at first his brain classified as familiar, but was unable to identify. This was replaced by the overwhelming pain from a blow to his left leg. As he spun around in a clockwise rotation, the leg gave way and the steps rushed up at him. As he impacted the hard concrete, his brain registered another sound. One his brain immediately identified.
“Gun!” Someone screamed.
The officers on the steps immediately dropped to the ground, and several guns were drawn. This had the usual effect on the crowd as everyone attempted to leave the area. As Leo looked back down the steps, he noticed several officers squinting into the morning sun looking for the shooter. The screaming of the crowd as they departed registered in Leo’s mind as he watched the mayhem disperse around him.
His hearing returned as a shot of pain from his leg cleared his mind. He looked down to see his uniform pants covered in blood just above the knee. He instinctively reached out his hand and applied pressure to the wound. He forced himself to wiggle his foot and was relieved when it responded as it should. Only after he had both his hands on the wound did he notice the carnage two steps below.
Ping lay face down on the steps of the courthouse with a small pool of blood forming a halo around his head. The back of his head showed a large entrance wound. The papers he had been carrying were blowing around him in the slight breeze. Leo stretched out a hand to feel for a pulse, but the sight of gray matter on the step next to the man’s head made him stop short.
“Leo, you’re shot!”
“You think so, kid?” Leo said. “Gimme your belt.”
“Yeah, sure. Is it bad?”
“Bad enough. I haven’t been shot since Beirut, and I don’t remember ever seeing a good one. Got an ambulance coming?”
“Ambulance is on its way, Leo,” one of the uniforms broke in. “Our boy dead?”
“Dead as can be,” Leo said. “You see where the shot came from? No, do it this way.” He instructed the rookie on
the pressure bandage. He had to speak up over the approaching sirens.
“Somewhere to the east, one of those buildings on the left, I think. Kinda echoed around, but I think it came from there. Just one shot.” He looked down at the mess which had once been the back of Ping’s head. “Someone couldn’t wait long enough for Leonard to meet the needle.”
“Tragedy,” Leo remarked. He looked up at his fellow cops and smiled. They returned his grin and stood looking at what was left of Leonard Ping, as his blood made its way down the stairs.
The cameraman on the street below caught the image with his Nikon. It would be on the front page by that evening.
• • •
Sam allowed himself two seconds of observation before standing and walking to the window in the next room. As he approached it, he was careful not to let himself be seen from the outside. The rifle was now back in the box and taped back up. He gently placed it in the chute and allowed it to fall into the dumpster five stories below. He had hoped for a means of destroying it on site, but unfortunately nothing was available. As the rifle fell, he turned and walked to the stairwell. As he passed the fourth floor, he could hear excited speech from behind the door. Something in Spanish he couldn’t make out. He quickly descended to the ground floor. As he stepped off the bottom step, he was startled by the shaking of the inside door and the ringing of the bells. He could make out a woman on the other side of the glass desperately pulling on the knob. Luckily, the pennies held. She saw his shape through the opaque glass.
“Hey—open the door!”
He ignored her and pushed open the fire exit. He could hear the bells ringing on the floors above him, as he quickly stepped out into the alley and began to walk toward the entrance leading to the street.
A door on his right suddenly opened, and a young woman stepped out. She flinched when she saw Sam. She looked over his clothes and the tool box in his hand, and with her hand over her chest, she calmed herself down.
“Did you hear a gun go off?” she asked. “I could have sworn I did.”
Sam turned and pointed to the roof of the building he had just left. “Something loud from up there. Not sure what it was. I’m getting out of here, just the same.”
“Okay.” The woman looked up at the building as he hoped she would, buying him some time. When she looked back, he had already turned and was walking away. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to follow or go back into her office.
“Laurie, what was that noise?”
The woman turned to see a coworker behind her at the door. “I don’t know. I thought it might be a gun, but I’m not sure.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“That man.” She turned to point.
The alley was empty.
The state of Maryland holds 23,791 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 15,939 are repeat offenders.
—TWENTY—
Sam resisted the urge to run. He proceeded down the street at a moderate pace toward his car, weaving in and out of people, all of which were on their way to work. The woman in the alley had rattled him. He had not expected her, and as a result of their encounter, someone had seen his face. He couldn’t be sure of how well he had distracted her, but it was enough to allow him to turn away. The quick look might have been enough for a good artist to construct a composite sketch, something which could really hamper his effectiveness.
He turned into the parking garage where he had stowed the rental Jeep earlier that morning. He looked around casually as he approached the vehicle. There were some commuters heading toward the exits at the other end of the ramp, but otherwise he was alone on this level. He reached into the backseat and pulled out a large garbage bag. After another quick look around, he placed the toolbox, clipboard, and hard hat into the bag. He then peeled off the shirt, pants, and boots he wore, and stuffed them into the bag, and replaced them with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. A new pair of running shoes went on after that. Placing a baseball cap on his head along with a new set of sunglasses, he got in and drove for the exit. The attendant didn’t even glance at him as he collected the fee and hit the button to raise the gate. Sam drove out and turned left, just in time to pull over for two squad cars rounding the corner. They sped past him without a second look. Sam watched them in his rearview until they disappeared, and then proceeded back into traffic.
Ten minutes later Sam was driving through the poorer section of town. Homeless could be seen out foraging for food or the daily bottle. He cruised slowly until he found an alley devoid of people, but containing a few dumpsters. Pulling up to one, he parked out of sight of the street. Reaching for the grocery bag next to him, he exited the Jeep and pulled open the back door. From the grocery bag, Sam removed a carton of milk. He emptied the carton into the trash bag and tied the bag tight. With his gloved hands, he shook the bag until all the milk had been evenly distributed. Only then did he turn and toss it in the nearest dumpster. With the heat being what it was, the milk would be foul and stinking in a short time, thereby discouraging anyone who may be foraging in the trash. Back behind the wheel, he carefully moved the Jeep back out into the traffic. He had the route to the highway memorized, and was soon driving past the rush-hour traffic heading in the opposite direction. He turned on the radio and thumbed the search button, trying to find a local news station, but found nothing except commercials and syndicated morning chatter. After the fourth channel of canned laughter, he gave up and pulled out the cell phone.
“Hey, it’s me. How’s it going?”
“Shitty,” Paul replied. “You?”
“The same, my friend. The same. So shitty, in fact, that number three is done, and I am in egress mode. Had to leave the rifle at the scene, and had a little problem leaving the building, but other than that, it went okay. Is it on the news yet?”
“I’ve just turned on CNN, and they got nothing. What do you mean a little problem?”
“Some secretary stepped out into the alley I was using and got a look at me. I covered well enough, I think, but she got a look. I had on the hat and sunglasses, so I don’t know how well she saw me. It was only a second or two at best.”
“That’s enough for a general description. They know you’re white. Height and weight. General build. This is bad, Sam.” Sam could hear the edge in Paul’s voice.
“Relax, that’s not enough, and right now they don’t even know if I was the guy. Listen, I’ve sterilized the car and ditched all the gear. I’m on my way back to Vegas to return the rental and fly back. I just wanted to tell you I got away clean, and I’m planning on ditching this phone as soon as we hang up. I’ll be going to the second one after this, okay?”
“All right,” Paul answered. “Just be careful. If I hear them put out a description on you or the car, I’ll call you. What color is that damn Jeep anyway?”
“Gray. It’s a new Cherokee Laredo. Needs a bath,” Sam said. “I won’t have cell coverage the whole way, so I’ll check in when I do.”
“Sounds good. You should be back by Wednesday night then, right? Plan on a trip to the clinic when you get back. Think about what you’re gonna tell the doc.”
“Just what I need. Something to look forward to.”
“It just came up on CNN; Hold on a second.”
“Well?” Sam pushed after a long silence. “What do they say?”
“Ping’s face down on the steps. Nice head shot. You winged a cop in the leg! He looks okay. He’s talking to the other cops. Lots of people milling around. The cops are grinning—even the wounded one. They’re taking him away now. There goes the sheet over the body. Lots of gore on the steps. Nobody looks too upset. Hell, the cops are still grinning. Looks like you have some fans. Heads are talking now. Was it a five-story with some construction going on that you used?” Paul asked.
“Yeah, it was perfect, but I had to lock the fire exits to keep my path clear. One guy saw me come in, even held the door for me, but he was more interested in his Wall Street Journal than looking at me
. Hardly anybody was in the building when I pulled the trigger. Long shot though—over seven-hundred yards. You sure the cop is okay?”
“Looks okay. He walked with some help down the steps to the stretcher. You were right on by the pictures. Not even a lot of blood. What about the envelopes?”
“I’m dropping them at the next mailbox I see. I left one on-scene addressed to Jack.”
“Okay, I got the DVR working for you. Get out of there and call me when you can.”
“Will do. Can I bring you anything?”
“How about some sunshine? It’s typical Michigan cloudy and cold here.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Sam hung up the phone and rolled down the windows. As the desert heat rolled through the car, he thought about his next doctor’s visit. He realized that the pain had been minimal these last few days. The dry desert air was maybe doing him some good.
Five miles later, he pulled over for some breakfast at a fast food vendor. He ate in his car in the parking lot. When he was through, he slid the phone into the bag along with the food wrappers. He then picked up a large envelope and carried his items to the curb of the parking lot. There, he slid the small envelopes from the large sterile one into a mailbox. The phone in the fast food bag went into the garbage can next to it.
• • •
Jack automatically reached out and felt for the clock radio that adorned his nightstand at home. After a few tries and misses, he opened his eyes and realized the noise was coming from his cell phone. He looked around the bed until he located it and thumbed it open. He looked at the incoming number. It was Deacon.
