[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  “Damn it,” he cursed. He needed the fire to do its job before the department got there. Unfortunately, the closest station was right across Daniels from the entrance to the development, hence the high volume of gasoline. Sam quickly dismissed the problem and concentrated on his exit.

  He rounded the last corner to see the exit gate still wide open as usual. You needed a code to get in the entrance, yet the exit was wide open and beyond the kiosk rather than next to it. Didn’t make a lot of sense to Sam when he first saw it, a simple lane change, and lack of oncoming traffic, and you were in. He was now counting on it to make his escape. He placed the ball cap on his head as he approached, and donned the sunglasses in case they somehow got a look through the tint. The guard was busy with a burgundy Park Avenue, and Sam sailed through without a tap of the brakes. As he passed the fountain, he heard the sounds of sirens cranking up. A double blast of the air horn and he saw the trucks approaching the boulevard entrance. South Trail Fire Department, Sam read off the side of the truck before he turned right into the Denny’s parking lot. He parked quickly and watched them pass. A look at the windows showed the customers all gazing after the trucks as they screamed their way in.

  Sam took the opportunity to move across the parking lot to the Wendy’s next door. Inside, he ordered a large iced tea. He unwrapped a straw and tossed the wrapper and the keys to the Cadillac into the trash bin. Sipping the tea, he walked out through the opposing entrance and got into the other rental car. He was soon westbound on Daniels Parkway. A Lee County ambulance passed him in the opposite lane, joined by a green striped county sheriff’s car. Faster response times than Sam had predicted, but they were too late, regardless.

  He continued until he passed 41. Daniels Parkway now changed its name to Cypress, and he stayed on it until he came to MacGregor. Taking a right, he was soon at the Cape Coral Bridge. Passing under it he entered the traffic approaching the toll booth. He fished a dollar’s worth of coins from his pocket and thumbed down the window. The heat rolled in as he tossed the coins in the basket. With the gate up, he joined the merging traffic entering the bridge. He made his way across the Caloosahatchee River and was soon in Cape Coral. Traffic was bad, and he found himself waiting at multiple red lights. He contemplated his decision as he waited.

  The shooting had taken place close to the only major freeway in the area. It was also not far from the airport, and Sam had decided to evade in the opposite direction. He was counting on the police to close off the major exits, so he had chosen a back road in the direction of Tampa. Escaping Cape Coral was his immediate concern. The city only had a few entrances and exits. Three bridges to the east over the river, two of which were major arteries and easily closed. The others led to Cape Coral only. There were more options by boat than there were by car, so Sam was going out the back door. He had chosen Burnt Store Road, a two-lane that followed the edge of Charlotte Harbor up to Punta Gorda. It was an area that was currently seeing a construction boom, also. Traffic was heavy with dump trucks and various contractors. Passing was not an option. The worst problem was that there were no exits between Cape Coral and Punta Gorda. Sam was committing himself to the next twenty miles with no options—something he didn’t like.

  He settled in behind an SUV. It was trailing a flatbed hauling a bulldozer, and he was forced to slow to fifty miles an hour. He began tuning the radio and setting the presets, looking for news stations that might broadcast the story. He thumbed from one to the other as he plodded along.

  Ten minutes went by before he heard the story break. He listened intently as the reporter gave the basics. TJ was pronounced dead at the scene. The fire was out, and the sheriff’s department considered it a crime scene. Reporters were not being allowed into the development. People called into the station with their version of what happened. Sam waited for a vehicle description to be aired, but it didn’t come. There was no news of the Cadillac being found. He tried another station, but only got more of the same.

  He passed a fire station with a deputy’s car in the lot. He held his breath until he was past, about ten more miles to go.

  • • •

  In the house, Pat and Jeff picked through the remainder of the living room. The fire was out and they were just making sure. Pat pulled the drywall away from around the fireplace, while Jeff scanned the walls with the thermal imagery camera looking for hot spots. The police had asked them to not move anything, but the chief had pointed out that, if the fire flared up again, the cops would then have nothing. Giving in to common sense, the sheriff agreed, and the chief had sent his two most experienced men in to make sure it was safe.

  “Anything?” Pat asked.

  “Nothing on the scope,” Jeff said. “I think we got it.”

  “Good. I need a drink.”

  “Check the fridge?” Jeff joked.

  “Sometimes the realtors have water in there,” Pat answered.

  Jeff reached out with his gloved hand and pulled the door open by the frame. The inside of the refrigerator was clean and white as opposed to the soot covered stainless steel exterior. Jeff didn’t find any water. What he found was a big envelope.

  “Hey, Pat—look at this.”

  Pat left the drywall and joined Jeff in the kitchen. He gazed into the dark refrigerator and saw the big envelope. FBI was printed in large letters. Underneath this was the name Jack Randall.

  “Don’t touch it,” Pat said. “Just get the sheriff in here.”

  • • •

  Jack was reading a report from the California shooting when his phone rang. He reached out and pulled it from the cradle without taking his eyes off the page.

  “Randall.”

  “Jack, it’s Deacon.”

  Jack dropped what he was reading. “Yes, sir?”

  “Turn on CNN. Your boy just did it again. They’ve just called us from Lee County, Florida. TJ Olson was shot while golfing this morning. They found the note in a refrigerator at an empty house the shooter used. The Director wants to see you.”

  “Score one for Larry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m on my way. I’ll explain in a minute.”

  “All right.” The phone went dead.

  Jack left his office and walked to The Pit, as they had started to call it. There, he found Larry, Dave, and Sydney, with several others, all pushing paper.

  “He did it again,” was all Jack said. He reached for the remote and thumbed the overhead TV on. CNN was still running the story. They all watched it in silence.

  “Well,” Larry asked, “what now?”

  “First,” Jack said, “you and I are going to the Director’s office.”

  “Why am I going?” Larry asked with a pained expression. He avoided the Director as much as possible.

  “Because you said it first, and I’m not going alone.” Jack smiled and spun to leave. Larry gave Sydney a puzzled look as he grudgingly got up to follow. He fixed his tie as he went.

  Sydney looked at Dave and shrugged. “Let’s call them and see what they have.”

  Dave shook his head at that. “More paper. We need some more help.”

  Sydney picked up a file she had set aside. It had been delivered to her only an hour ago.

  “Speaking of which . . .”

  She got up and left in the direction of Jack’s office.

  The state of Nevada holds 10,543 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 7,063 are repeat offenders.

  —TWENTY-EIGHT—

  “Jack, tell me you have something.”

  Jack and Larry sat across from the Director over a large and somewhat messy desk. A view of the Washington skyline could be seen out the window with the Lincoln Memorial in the distance. The Director was a collector of World War II memorabilia, and his office held several pieces, including a letter from Eisenhower to Patton. Larry struggled to read it from a distance while still appearing attentive.

  “I’m afraid we don’t,” Jack said. “Obviously, this guy
has these things set up well in advance. Money doesn’t seem to be a problem. He’s moving too fast for us to catch up. I’m pulling the team from following any longer.”

  The Director chewed on this for a moment. The thing he had first noticed about Jack was his lack of an agenda. He already had money and, if he wanted it, power. It gave him the unique ability to speak his mind and not worry about the political consequences. The answer the Director had just received was an honest one, despite the fact that it didn’t paint him in a favorable light. The last sentence was not something he understood.

  “You’re keeping the team here. Why?”

  “If we keep chasing him, we’ll stay behind him until he’s done. I feel we need to focus on where he’s going next. The local offices can work the scenes and forward everything they have.”

  The Director ran a hand through his rapidly graying hair. The Attorney General was not going to approve Jack’s suggestion. He liked Jack on the TV. Showing the public they were on the case. It also cemented Jack as the fall guy should this end badly.

  An annoying tapping diverted his attention and he gazed at Larry who immediately stopped drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair.

  “Why are you here?” the Director asked

  “He was the one who suggested we look at people who the shooter may target,” Jack jumped in before Larry could speak. “TJ was the first name on the list.”

  “Is that so?” The Director said.

  “Yes, sir,” Larry answered.

  “So where is he going next then?”

  Jack sat back before answering. “He—or they, I guess I should say—seem to target people who they feel have skirted justice. So far, the targets have all been people who have been in the system, but have somehow beaten it or corrupted it. He likes high profile, and he has an agenda. I hate to say so, but it’s working. I just read a report stating that calls to tip lines have doubled, and people are taking some matters into their own hands. A robbery target at a convenience store beat his assailant into the intensive care unit last night in Kansas City. Report says the customers helped him do it. No charges as of this morning.”

  “No charges?”

  “Nobody called the cops. All the information is from the assailant and an anonymous phone call. Caller explained where to find the man. That’s all they have.”

  “That’s exactly what we don’t need. I’m sure the press will have that nation-wide soon. You still have not answered my question.”

  “We’re thinking Mafia heads who have escaped prosecution, anyone on the pedophile list, some of the high profile corporate criminals. Sad to say it, but it’s a long list. I have my team focusing on the ones who would generate the most press. With luck, we’ll get an ID from some forensics, but this guy has proven to be quite knowledgeable in the field. I’m not optimistic.”

  The Director swung his chair around and gazed out the window while he thought over what he had been told. Jack shared a look with Larry while they waited.

  “What other methods of identifying this guy do we have?”

  “So far, no prints or DNA material. We’re tracing materials from all three scenes, but no hits. No serial numbers off the rifles. We’re still waiting on the list from the Department of Defense. May have something new from the Olson shooting, but I think it’s going to take a stroke of luck or a tip to get him. We need to think ahead of him.”

  The chair simply rocked in reply. Larry stole another look at the letter while he had the chance.

  “All right. Stay on track. I’ll smooth it over with the A.G., and call DOD about the damn list. Call me if you need anything else, Jack.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack replied to the back of the chair. He motioned Larry out in front of him.

  Once the door was closed, Larry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.

  “Thanks a lot, Jack. What was I in there for, anyway?”

  “Moral support. I’ll catch up to you in the pit.”

  “All right.” Larry hustled down the hallway, away from the Director’s office, as fast as he could.

  Jack left in the direction of his office, but detoured to the elevators. He couldn’t tell Larry he needed him there as a witness. The Director was somewhat of a political creature, and Jack had been warned by Deacon to be careful. Arriving on the bottom floor, he left the building and wandered down the street until he found a favorite sandwich shop. He ordered his usual and found a seat outside on a bench. With the traffic noise in the background, he pulled out his cell phone and made a couple of phone calls.

  • • •

  “Danny!”

  Danny Drake was in a foul mood. After the long flight from California he had arrived in Orlando to find Dominic waiting for him at the baggage claim. Dominic was the owner’s nephew, and worked doing odd jobs around the paper. Behind his back he was known as Smithers, after the Simpson’s character. One had to be careful what one said around Dominic, as it would get to his uncle, well edited, in record time.

  He offered nothing to the prying questions as he was driven to the paper instead of his apartment. Only there did he learn of the shooting of TJ Olson. He was quickly instructed to submit his story on the Ping shooting before being loaded into a car with a cameraman and sent to Ft. Myers. Once outside town, he forced the photographer to stop at a hotel so he could shower and change before climbing into the backseat in an attempt to get some more sleep. Now he was being yelled at.

  “What?” he asked without opening his eyes.

  “Your phone.”

  He opened one eye to see the offending instrument being held out while the other hand stayed on the wheel. He grabbed it and looked at the screen. It woke him up immediately.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Drake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you on your way to Ft. Myers by chance?”

  “Yes, we are,” Danny hinted.

  “You’re not alone I take it. I’ll be brief. The Department of Defense was asked to submit a list of past and current sniper-trained personnel after the Addicot shooting. They have yet to deliver. I could use your assistance with that.”

  “I understand.”

  “In return, I offer you this. Both the guns from the Ping shooting and the Olson shooting were the same brand and model as the Addicot shooting. The letters also are all from the same source, confirmed by the FBI forensic labs.”

  “Can I quote you?”

  “Not yet. How about high-level government source for now? That always seems to work.”

  “All right . . . That’s it?”

  “Sorry, Danny. That’s all I can offer right now.”

  “Okay . . . Uh, thanks.”

  “I’ll call again, Danny. You’re doing well.”

  A dial tone ended the call before Danny could ask any more questions. He tried to think it through, but the fatigue was still there. Giving up, he settled back into the seat. A minute later, he was snoring.

  • • •

  Unknown to Danny, Sam lay in a hotel bed less than a few miles away with one of the pre-paid cell phones in his left hand and the TV remote in his right. Just outside of Tampa, he had been in the room for a couple of hours now, and was watching another round of CNN while keeping tabs on the local stations. So far no description of him, but they had found the Cadillac. As the anchor turned the program over to the sport’s desk, he punched the mute button and dialed Paul.

  “Hey, buddy,” Paul answered. “How’s it going?”

  “Shitty. How’s your end?”

  “The same; I’m just watching some TV. Did you know TJ Olson was shot this morning?”

  “Really?”

  “All over the tube. He’s real dead. Have any problems?”

  “Nope; didn’t even sweat. Getting out was the only variable. I made it past Venice before they set up the roadblocks, way too late. I’m in Tampa now and thinking about catching a flight.”

  “You gonna use Chicago or Detroit? Don’t forget Grand Rap
ids has a lot of connections now, too.”

  “Actually, I was thinking Memphis.”

  “You’re gonna try to make the rally? What’s the rush?”

  “If we keep going, they really have no time to catch up. The more we stay ahead of them, the better.”

  “I thought you said the faster we go, the more mistakes we make?”

  “Who’s making mistakes?”

  “Don’t give me that; I don’t like it.”

  “Relax. I’ll go and check it out. If there isn’t a good option, I’ll pass and come back home. Okay?”

  “I guess. Just be careful. You asked me who’s making mistakes. The answer is you. Just not a critical one yet.”

  Sam bit his tongue for a minute. Paul was right. He just didn’t know what Dr. Maher had told him.

  “I’ll be careful. I’ll call from Memphis when I get there. Run the DVR for me?”

  “You got it.”

  Sam hung up. He’d tell Paul the rest when he got home.

  • • •

  Jack sat at his desk reading a file with some amusement. He had no doubt that it had found its way there thanks to Sydney. It made for some interesting reading.

  Eric Simmons had been labeled by his teacher as slightly retarded when he was six years old. Luckily, his parents had refused to believe that and had him tested. Turned out he was anything but. The boy showed a remarkable affinity for math and science. The main problem had been that he was bored. Throughout his school years, he had constantly disappointed his parents with inconsistent grades. Report cards showing A’s in some subjects, D’s in others, never anything in between. If he liked a subject and the teacher, he would produce an A. If not, then the minimum was met. Fortunately, he was intelligent enough to change this when he hit high school.

  It was a shop teacher, of all people, who had gotten through to him. After meeting the boy’s parents and making some suggestions, Eric was soon taking college level courses at the local university. Eric had finished high school in less than three years, and was accepted to MIT on an academic scholarship. Here, he once again ran afoul with the strict school rules. When a particular teacher had announced in his welcoming speech that nobody got an A in his class, Eric had taken offense. Using his considerable skill with a computer, he accessed the teachers laptop and installed a program forcing the professor to answer a short quiz on his own subject before allowing access. Wrong answers had locked the computer down for twenty-four hours. After being locked out repeatedly, the professor turned the computer over to the school. While Eric was good, he was no match for the staff, and the program was broken and traced. While guilt could not be proven, Eric received the rest of the year off to think about it. He may have avoided the suspension if the professor’s failing quiz grades had not been published to the web. Regardless, Eric was currently out of school and unemployed.