"That's just it. We aren't talking about the average man here."
"Huh?"
"If the shooter is the pro that his handiwork suggests he is, then he probably has liquid nitrogen for blood."
Pratt stared at him for a moment. "You could have mentioned that before we spent three hours driving over here just so that I could be traumatized."
"Don't be such a baby."
"Nate, I—"
"Just because someone doesn't fit one of the two or three white-bread human archetypes you learned about growing up in hayseed hillbillyland doesn't mean they're evil. For just one moment, try not to be a walking caricature of the vanilla tough guy law enforcement officer. Everybody can see through the façade anyway."
"What's a façade?"
"We're all just faking it, Pratt. Some of us are better at faking it than others. All of us scared of being singled out. Hoping for dear life not to have whatever it is that makes each of us different exposed for the world to see."
"Remember when you told me to tell you when you're being preachy?"
"Well, if you're going to play the outraged country bumpkin. . . ."
"Nate, I just handled a jar full of someone's balls."
"For free. A lot of people pay good money just to see a low-resolution photograph of something like that on the internet. And don't pretend you weren't titillated."
After a moment of apparent deliberation, Pratt half chuckled and smiled as he seemed, finally, to relax. "Shit."
"Don't cuss, Opie. Let's go home.
TEN
Arkin sat cross-legged on the floor of his office, halfway through the weekly ritual of polishing his perfectly cared for Salvatore Ferragamo shoes, sipping at a perfectly brewed cup of single-origin Rwandan coffee and waiting for his opponent in an online chess game to make his move. His chess opponent, a mathematics professor playing the white side, was supposed to be the University of Salzburg champion three years running. When the game opened, Arkin reasoned that an Austrian academic—an establishment man in what Arkin thought of as a frightfully backward country—would have conservative chess habits tending toward those of the classical school. So far, the tactics Arkin adopted to counter what he expected of his opponent had paid off in spades. After only five moves, Arkin was already certain he'd win. The fool had taken the bait—hook, line and sinker—on Arkin's version of Alekhine's Defense, deploying four white pawns in pursuit of Arkin's roving king's knight. Now to spring the trap.
He'd hoped for more of a challenge to get him warmed up for his approaching online match against Gregori Zhukov. Zhukov was a retired Ukrainian national champion—still one of the finest players in the world, and one of the few champions who still accepted challenges from well-respected amateurs like Arkin. Arkin had played him three times now, losing each match. But he'd done better each time, and he'd continued to study Zhukov's famous games, analyzing his tactics and tendencies, pinpointing his weaknesses. Sooner or later, he knew he would win. And he wouldn't quit issuing challenges until he did. The only catch was that a lot of people wanted to play against Zhukov, so Arkin had to wait nearly six months between matches.
Three moves later, and Arkin had the Austrian's queen trapped. A knock on his door broke his concentration. Now what? "Yes?"
Pratt stepped in. "Our data came back."
"Data?"
"From the credit card payment processors."
"Oh—right, right. Good." Arkin sent an instant message to his opponent requesting a pause in the game, hoping the man wouldn't, in the interregnum, realize his colossal blunder and devise an improbable but effective recovery. "What did you find?"
"I haven't found anything yet. There are more than 380,000 entries."
"Americans love their credit cards."
"What should I do with it?"
"Cross-reference the different data sets, looking for matches."
"What kind of matches?"
"Any kind. Think about it—if we have the same card being used in relatively close proximity to murder scenes that were more than a thousand miles and several years apart, well, that would be worth examining further."
"So how do I do that?"
"Write a formula or two in Litmus and run the data through it."
Pratt stood staring.
"You don't know how to do that."
"No."
Arkin shook his head. "When they first found you in that cave, were you completely naked, or had you at least figured out how to cut animal skin into a loincloth?"
"Cave?"
"You need to get on the ball, Opie. Data mining's the wave of the future. That's how they found D.B. Cooper."
"They found D.B. Cooper?"
"Pratt, you're killing me."
*****
In the basement a few minutes later, Pratt watched as Arkin sat at Pratt's computer, typing what to Pratt looked like quasi-mathematical gibberish: a long formula of letters, symbols, and numbers written in the language of Litmus data processing software.
"So let me make sure I understand the universe of what we're looking at here," Arkin said.
"Okay."
"These three datasets cover all credit transactions within 200 miles of the Eureka, rural Michigan, and Cortez killings, covering a range of days that includes a week before and after each?
"I—yes, I think so."
"Can you follow what I'm doing here by looking at this formula?"
"No."
"I'm polling for any account numbers that turn up in more than one of these datasets."
"Okay."
Arkin finished up, hit return, and they both watched as the program spit out a list of four account numbers. None were used near the Michigan killing. But all four were used near both Cortez and Eureka in the timeframe they were examining. Two were used at a Redding, California, retailer called Shasta Fishing Lures, as well as at grocery stores and fast-food restaurants in Telluride and Bayfield, Colorado. "Those first two are probably just mail-order purchases," Arkin said. "Colorado fishermen ordering lures from an outfit up there in Redding. We can probably rule those out." But the third and fourth account numbers were used for purchases of gas. In fact, there were two gas purchases made under each account number within easy driving range of each crime scene. "Look at that," Arkin said, pointing at the screen.
"What?"
"This pattern. For the Eureka data set, the first gas purchase on each card was made on Wednesday the 11th, and the second on each card was made on the 19th—the exact date of the Eureka shooting."
"You don't think that's a coincidence?"
"For the Cortez data set, the first gas purchase on each card was made on the Sunday before the killing, the second on the day of the killing."
"Okay, I suppose that is a little weird."
"What's the average range of a car on a full tank of gas? Maybe 300 miles?"
"Something like that. Unless it's a hybrid."
"Do you have an atlas in here?"
Pratt pulled a U.S. highways atlas out of one of his cubicle cabinets and handed it to Arkin. Arkin turned to the page covering the whole of the Lower 48 as Morrison walked in.
"You peckerwoods are as busy as cats burying shit on a marble floor. Anyone up for a run over to Carver's? I'm craving eggs."
Arkin held up a wait a minute finger without breaking his concentration on the map. "Okay, look here. For this first account number, on the 11th, the cardholder looks to have gassed up here," he said, his finger on the map, "in Gold Beach, Oregon. Then on the 19th, he gasses up in Grants Pass. Both towns just about half an average car gas tank to the north or northeast of Eureka. Meanwhile, the second cardholder gasses up in Redding and Shingletown, California, each about half a gas tank east of Eureka. You follow me?"
"Uh-huh."
"Then we jump ahead two years, and here is that same first cardholder gassing up near Crescent Junction, Utah, half a gas tank's drive northwest of Cortez, on both that Sunday and the following Friday on which Egan was shot. And t
hat same second card paying for gas on those same days, but in Pagosa Springs, probably less than half a gas tank east of Cortez, on the way in, and in Alamosa, a little more than half a gas tank away, on the way out. And look—neither card has been used since."
"What do you think it means?"
"Maybe nothing. Maybe it just happens that two different people happened to be in fairly close proximity to two eerily similar killings two years and 1,200 miles apart. Maybe it means a couple of people just happened to move from Oregon and California to Utah and Colorado. Or maybe it means that two people were involved in both of these assassinations, that they gassed up as far away as they could going to and from the assassinations, and that one of them is based to the north of Eureka and to the northwest of Durango, while the other is based to the east."
"Nate, stay here. I'll be right back," Morrison said.
"Where are you going?"
"To get the equipment."
"Equipment?"
"The bag and tubing and so forth. For your enema."
"But wait," Pratt said. "Look at these purchases here on the day after the Cortez shooting. Each of the cards has another gas purchase. The first one bought gas in Montrose, the second one in South Fork. Those towns are each closer to Cortez than either Crescent Junction or Alamosa."
Arkin examined the data again. "Huh." Indeed, it did appear as though the cardholders were driving back and forth, first away from, but then back toward Cortez.
"That kind of shoots down your theory that the cardholders were fleeing the crime scene, doesn't it?" Morrison asked. "Or do you think they maybe just forgot to pack their Neiman Marcus toiletries before checking out of the Assassin Motor Inn, and were doubling back to retrieve them?"
"Those toiletries are expensive," Arkin said, as he wondered whether perhaps it wasn't all just a coincidence after all. Perhaps the cardholders really were just locals. Or maybe truck drivers or delivery people. Whatever the case, odds were they weren't connected to the Cortez shooting. Arkin didn't know whether to be frustrated or relieved. He exhaled through his nose. "Well, Morrison, I reckon you had better go ahead and rig up that enema for me."
"Lilac or lavender scented?"
"Lilac." Arkin smiled. But the data still troubled him, and he couldn't let go of his hunch that, despite the likelihood of their irrelevance given the back-and-forth movements indicated by the gas purchases, the two credit card accounts in question were somehow important. "You know what? I still think you should send out a follow-up subpoena for details on these two account holders," he said to Pratt.
"Really? You think it's worth our time?"
"Come on, Nate," Morrison said. "Give the kid a break."
"It'll take five minutes to draft. Let's just see what there is to see."
Morrison shook his head. "You've never been one to accept defeat gracefully."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't really a compliment. Sometimes you just got to chuck it in the fuck it bucket and move on."
"You make your point as eloquently as ever."
*****
That afternoon, Arkin slipped out of the building, alone, and drove the 45 miles back to the Cortez crime scene. It was an unusually blustery and overcast day, and the gray sky seemed to leech the color out of everything below it, leaving the mountains, the forests, and the rivers all looking flat and cold. Winter was coming.
Arkin turned off Highway 160 and zigzagged his way up a haphazard network of country roads to the long driveway of Egan's remote compound. He pulled up and parked at the partially open gate, was greeted by a gust of cold and dusty wind as he opened the door of his car, walked the 50 or more yards to the house, and climbed up onto the porch. There were no lights on inside or out. The place already had the lonely air of abandonment. Things had been cleaned up. The body was gone, as were the blood and brains. The bullet holes were still there. But otherwise nothing remained to indicate that a man's life had ended in spectacular fashion, on that very porch, only a few days earlier.
In fact, it had been barely a week since the shooting, but Arkin could already see signs of neglect and decline in the property. The porch, which had been spotless—aside from Egan's body and brains—when Arkin had been there last, was now coated in a film of tan dust. The leaves of the perfect little ornamental shrubs lining the driveway were curling for lack of water. And the driveway itself, which had been hand-raked to a flawless and level grade, was a crisscross of ridges and ruts left by the innumerable vehicles of police, the coroner, the media, orphaned followers, and nosy neighbors.
"Anybody here?" Arkin called. No answer came. All he heard was the cold north wind whistling across the plateau, and the rap-rap of a loose, wind-blown screen door repeatedly banging against its frame over at the tiny garage office where they'd interviewed Egan's chief of security.
Arkin peered through the nearest window, shielding his eyes from the dull glare of the overcast sky. Empty. He peeked through the hole left by the killing bullet. It framed a small view of the living room, including Egan's old cast-iron wood stove, black and cold. Seeing nothing of interest, he turned and gazed out over the surrounding land, at first scanning the horizon from north to south, then bringing his focus back to the little valley—more a trough—where Egan's killer set up to shoot him. The spot, already hard to see in the low light of an overcast evening, was veiled in the deepening shadow cast by the small knoll to its southwest.
Is it you? Arkin wondered. Or am I chasing a shadow?
He continued to stare, his hands jammed into his suit pockets and his arms drawn tight against his sides, as the north wind buffeted him, penetrating his clothes, sending a chill up his spine. The sky slowly grew darker with the approach of dusk. But still he stood and stared out across the land.
*****
Returning home that evening, he opened the front door to discover an infant sitting reclined and eyeballing him from a brightly-colored bouncer seat. A little girl—maybe 3 months old—with beautiful Native American black hair and dark brown eyes. She was studying him intently, having no doubt turned when she heard the sound of the heavy wooden door opening.
"Hello there," Arkin said softly, dropping to a crouch so as to appear smaller and hopefully less threatening. "I'm Nate. What's your name?"
"This is Faith," Hannah said, rounding the corner with a bottle of formula and a small towel.
"Hi, Faith," he said, smiling as he did his best baby wave.
"Her mom is my client at Legal Aid. She had to go in for emergency surgery. Complications from diabetes. Don't ask."
"Uh-oh."
"So Faith is going to stay at our house for a couple of nights, aren't you?" she said, tickling the child's foot, getting her to smile. Arkin caught Hannah wincing as she lifted Faith from the bouncer. She sat down on the couch, gingerly, and cradled the child in her arms while she hand-fed her formula—as naturally as though she'd raised half a dozen children of her own. Faith's eyes locked on Hannah's, and in their warm expressions Arkin read unspoken messages of mutual unconditional affection and happiness.
"And how are you feeling?" Arkin asked, hoping his worry didn't show through.
"I'll manage."
He forced a smile and shook his head.
ELEVEN
Arkin, Morrison, and Pratt spent the morning in Farmington with a handful of ATF agents up from Santa Fe, sweating in body armor and full tactical gear, practicing dynamic entries at a sandbag-lined raid training house set up in a derelict military housing rambler at the National Guard armory. They took turns knocking the doors in with rams and leading six-agent entry teams as they cleared rooms and blew human-shaped cardboard targets to shreds with their pistols, short-barreled shotguns, and MP-5 machine guns.
Back in Durango after wolfing down a lunch of drive-through burgers en route, they sat around the long table of a conference room they borrowed from the Forest Service, listening on speakerphone to the ring of a call Arkin placed.
A man with a deep baritone
voice answered. "Hubbard."
"Good afternoon, Dr. Hubbard. This is Nate Arkin. I have Pratt and Bill Morrison with me here in Durango, and I believe we now have Detective Cornell on the line from Cortez."
"Afternoon, gentlemen. Where shall we begin?"
"Perhaps with the bullets."
"Certainly. As you suspected, your victim was indeed killed by a .50 BMG round."
Arkin wondered why forensics people always used the word "victim" in place of the victims' actual names. Perhaps it helped them maintain a psychological buffer from the horror of what they analyzed every day.
"An enormous and powerful bullet. Variations of it have been around since before any of us were born. It's currently in use in militaries all over the world. In the United States, it's even available for purchase by the general public. But I've never analyzed one quite like this before." Dr. Hubbard sounded like a kid describing his first trip to Disneyland. "A 752-grain low-drag bullet, with a muzzle velocity of around 3,000 feet per second, delivering roughly 15,000 foot-pounds of energy. To give you some sense of proportion, the bullets you guys load in the .40 caliber handguns you're issued are between 150 and 200 grains, have a muzzle velocity of around 1,100 feet per second, and maybe deliver 400 or 500 foot-pounds of energy, depending on the brand. And the variant that killed your victim wasn't your usual .50 round. It was an armor-piercing round, designed for anti-materiel applications. But the real eyebrow-raiser here is that the composition of the residues we got off the surrounding leaves and brush you sent in indicates the round was of a type only available to the American military. I won't bore you with the details of its chemistry, but in short, it was loaded with a special powder that increases the kinetic energy of the round to a level significantly exceeding that of any other .50 round I've ever seen or read about. Fascinating."
"An American military bullet," Arkin muttered, staring through the far wall, his mind miles away. "How did he get hold of that?"
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