A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  “In the Army we usually warmed up by shooting a few rounds of bull’s-eye.”

  “Yeah, that’s the Army. Far as I’m concerned, bull’s eye shooting is for sissies. I like to keep it real and stick to combat shooting. That way if you ever have to testify about how you’re trained, your testimony shows them we don’t look at this as a sport. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay. Ready on the right. Ready on the left. Ready on the firing line. Load’em up.”

  Terri took the magazine from her front pocket and slapped it into the butt of the Glock like she knew exactly what she was doing.

  “Prepare to fire.”

  With the muzzle end of her gun pointing down range, she pulled the slide to the rear, released it, let it slam home and holstered the gun.

  “No time limit. When you’re ready, fire three rounds and holster.”

  She drew the weapon, tightened her grip, rested the palm of her left hand against the barricade with her thumb sticking out parallel to the ground and cradled the wrist of her shooting hand on top of the thumb. She took a deep breath, let half out and squeezed off one round. With both eyes open she looked at the target, saw the round hit low and to the left in the nine ring. She shook her head, tightened up her stance and in a few seconds fired another round. That hit about an inch to the left of the first shot, straddling the eight/nine rings. Once more and the round cut paper between the first two. She holstered the Glock and turned toward me.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Not so good.”

  “Not in a match, but in real life, you blew out his spleen.”

  She laughed and removed her earmuffs.

  “Just my opinion,” I said, “but you’re ‘heeling’ the gun and trying to pick the time your shot goes off. When you do that, you ‘push’ the shot low and to the left.”

  She frowned.

  “I watched you. You’re squeezing the trigger and that’s good. But just before you complete the trigger squeeze, you tighten your grip. The extra pressure from the heel of your right hand on the grip causes the shot to go left. And when you like your sight picture, you get impatient and want the gun to go off when you think the sights and X-ring are perfectly aligned. So, you give the trigger a little extra squeeze. Being right handed, your shot gets pushed to about eight o’clock on the target. Sound about right?”

  She shrugged. “I guess. That’s where the rounds hit.”

  “So relax. You’re not getting graded, and I’m not going to bite you. We’re just getting you familiar with the gun. When you get to the police academy or shoot on the county range, you can impress those officers and show them how a former Army cop can do it.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “For today, cool off. Let me talk you through the fundamentals, and you’ll squeeze off some good shots.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “My first recommendation is to forget that old-fashioned way you cradle your gun at the barricade. That went out of style before J. Edgar Hoover bought his first Tommy gun. With the slide travelling back and forth on top of a light weight frame and the recoil of the hot ammo, you need more grip on the gun.”

  She nodded again, but looked like she wasn’t sure of a good alternative.

  “Wrap your left hand around your right, but keep it well below the slide. You know it’s tight enough when the polymer crumbles in your palm.”

  She grinned at my exaggeration.

  “Then, just lightly rest your knuckles against the wood. That’s all you need. My gun’s unloaded. I’ll show you what I mean.”

  I demonstrated and re-holstered.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll try that.”

  “Let me talk you through this. Don’t do anything but listen to me, and do what I tell you. Above all, do not pick a time when you want the shot to go off. Let it surprise you. Got it?”

  She half smiled but looked a little apprehensive. “Roger that, sir.”

  “Look, Terri, I’m not your opponent here. I’m your partner, not your boss. Right now, I’m acting like your coach. I want you to be happy with the targets you shoot. I know you can qualify with that gun. I want you to do it well. Relax. I’ll say it once more. This is not a test. It’s practice.”

  She nodded and adjusted her earphones.

  “You’re still loaded. Un-holster your weapon and point it down range. Get your grip. Get your stance.”

  She braced the pistol against the barricade as I suggested.

  “Ready on the right. Ready on the left, and all that jazz. Now listen carefully. Align your sights and set the front one at center mass on the target. Now forget the target. I want that black silhouette to gray out and get fuzzy. You can’t get a sharp picture of the sights and the target at the same time. Do not look for the X-ring. Stare at the front sight, and keep it aligned with the rear. Take a breath and let half of it out. Start your squeeze. Slowly. Nice and smooth. Look at the front sight as if it was mounted on a railroad track and the more you squeeze the closer it gets to you. Squeeze that trigger back toward you. Watch the sight coming at you. Squeeze.”

  Bang! The shot rang out.

  “Do not look for where that shot landed.”

  She flinched.

  “Hear me?”

  She nodded, almost frozen in position.

  “Get right back on your sights. It’s not your job to score your target. Your job is to kill that guy down range. Take another breath, and listen…”

  I went through the same drill. A second and then a third shot went off.

  “Okay, holster your weapon. We’re going down range to take a look.”

  We walked the seventy-five feet to the target line. Seven yards from the silhouette, I looked over at Terri. A big smile crossed her face.

  “Not bad,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “No complaints from me, boss. I guess you’ve taught people how to shoot before?”

  “Once or twice.” Oh, modest me.

  Her three shots were all in the ten ring.

  “Pretty good, considering you’re not familiar with this piece of Austrian plastic. Let’s do it all over again, but you talk yourself through it. I’ll watch.”

  At 10:45 I was satisfied that Terri Donnellson could handle her Glock safely and efficiently.

  “Not bad for an ex-Army cop. I have no doubt you’ll do well at the range. I’ve got plenty of money in the budget for practice ammo. Whenever you get the urge to pop some caps, let me know. From what I’ve seen today, I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t come back from the academy with an expert bar.”

  “I guess you’ve got one.”

  “I seem to have a natural knack for this,” I said. “I shoot distinguished expert.” I smiled. “And I’m too old to act modest and not mention that.”

  She smiled, too. “I guess that tells me.”

  “No, I’ll show you. It’s my turn. I don’t want you thinking I’m one of those guys who can teach but not do. Let’s go to the twenty-five yard line and put our ears on.”

  I squared off seventy-five feet from my target, drew my Glock and took an unsupported ‘point shoulder’ stance. I took a breath and rapped off sixteen shots. The slide locked back. I released the magazine, pulled it free and stuck it in my pocket. I rammed in a fresh magazine, released the slide, seated a round and holstered my gun.

  “Damn,” she said, “is that thing full auto? I never heard someone fire that fast.”

  “No, it’s just broken in. Let’s take a look.”

  About ten feet from the silhouette Terri said, “Holy sh— Wow, you blew out the X-ring. What have you got, three, no four tens? It looks like one big hole.”

  “Shucks, ma’am, weren’t nuthin’.”

  “Yeah, right. I guess I’ll listen to your advice from now on.”

  “Smart girl. I knew I had a good reason for hiring you.”

  “Yeah. Thank you for that.”

  “I don’t hand out jobs. You earned it.
”

  She nodded. “I’m anxious to start working a real job again.”

  “I guess collaring teenage shoplifters isn’t the most interesting aspect of law enforcement, is it?”

  “I understand the teenagers. It’s the seventy-five-year-old kleptomaniacs that depress me.”

  I laughed. “Have you picked up your uniforms yet?”

  “Got them the other day.”

  “Good. We’ll see you at eight o’clock Monday morning. Bettye will get you started in the office, and then she’ll probably find someone to take you out on the road for the afternoon.”

  “Is Sergeant Lambert sort of your XO?”

  “I don’t really have an executive officer on the table of organization, but I guess she acts like it. And she’s the boss while I’m gone. Stan Rose runs the show from four to twelve. He’s the official road sergeant. And then there’s John Gallagher. Except for Vern Hobbs, John’s got more time on the job than anyone else. He was a good detective back in New York. If you ever learn his brand of English, listen to him. You’ll learn lots about investigations.”

  “I think I’m going to like Prospect PD.”

  “You will.”

  I looked at my watch.

  “Let’s clean up. I’ve got to get up to Knoxville and charm a couple of Feds into a big favor.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Oliveri and Harmon were already at Puleo’s Grill when I walked in. After telling the hostess who I intended to meet, she escorted me to a booth away from the other occupied tables and against the back wall of the main dining room.

  “Gentlemen,” I said as I sat.

  “Nice of you to dress for the occasion,” the snide Italian said.

  I wore Khakis, sneakers and a plaid sport shirt. The Feds were in uniform: Wall Street gray suits, white shirts and somber ties.

  “I spent the morning with a new recruit. I wanted to familiarize her with the Glock before sending her out on patrol.”

  I opened the menu, but already knew what I’d order.

  “Your recruit is a her?” Ralph asked.

  “Yeah. A former MP. She seems like a sharp kid.”

  Before Ralph could wander off on the unrelated topic of Terri Donnellson, Carl spoke up.

  “Ralph says you have new info on the Riverside Strangler that you’d like some help with?”

  “I do. Very new and very good information.”

  “Can I assume you know that I received a call from Sheriff Hartung requesting our assistance on his task force?”

  “Not officially. He spoke to me about the task force after Ryan Leary was taken into custody. I suggested that your help was long overdue and that he should let you take the lead.”

  He nodded. “If your new information is extremely good, why not make the arrest yourself?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Ahh. How I obtained the information would tend to preclude its use in court and without it, I’m no closer to an arrest than I was two days ago.”

  A waitress stopped at the table to take our orders. Ralph insisted on the lasagna. Carl wanted chicken picatta, and I, of course, chose the shrimp and andouille sausage in tasso sauce over a mound of cheese grits.

  After the waitress left, Carl continued. He kept his delivery objective, but the look on his face told me he wasn’t pleased to hear what I was saying. “Why do you think we could use this illegally obtained evidence?”

  “Simple. If I whisper in your ear and tell you where and what to look for in a batch of legally obtained evidence you already have, no one will ever know it wasn’t an inevitable discovery. All you have to do is take young Oliveri here,” I pointed at Ralph with a knife I just used to spread a little butter on a small piece of bread, “who has been working on the Leary brutality case and assign him to the Strangler task force.”

  Carl narrowed his eyes, and deep lines wrinkled his forehead. It made me think he worried a lot.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I’ll explain all the details, but basically, Ralph has…or should have already seen the evidence, only he probably didn’t know what he was looking at.”

  “Wait. Wait. Are you telling me—?”

  I nodded. “Ryan Leary is the killer. Or at least one of them.”

  “Madonna mi!” Ralph said, and almost choked on a slice of homemade bread.

  Carl shook his head in disbelief. “Sam, you had better be sure on this.”

  “Oh, I’m sure about Leary. Only I’m not sure Ralphie has already seen the evidence. But someone working the Leary case has. That’s a minor logistical technicality you can work out. The point is…no one on your end would have seen the snake in the woodpile because you weren’t privy to any task force information. Now that you are, and coincidentally I’m part of that task force, I can present all my circumstantial evidence leading me to theorize that Ryan Leary should be a person of interest.” I broke off another piece of bread and dabbed on a tidbit of butter. “I’ve got at least a reasonable suspicion. When I suggest that you scrutinize his emails, which you already have, during the time after his involvement with the thief Farris Tingle, you’ll be amazed when one of your agents remembers seeing an email from a sender with a screen name of ‘Stones’ mentioning a subject called ‘Andy’ forwarded from Ryan’s sheriff’s office computer to his personal email account on his home computer. Coincidentally, the email account for ‘Andy’ can be traced to Ryan’s computer.”

  I popped the piece of bread into my mouth and chewed for a moment.

  “As I’ll tell you after we are sitting together as part of the task force, ‘Andy’ is a key lead in the Rosanna Wakefield murder. She made an appointment to meet with ‘Andy’ the night she was killed. The meeting was scheduled to take place in the parking lot of the greatest little whorehouse in Tennessee, where I can, with great certainty, place Ryan Leary’s vehicle. Let’s let him start explaining away those circumstances.”

  Carl rubbed a hand across his forehead and didn’t look happy. “My God, what are we talking about? Nine murders?”

  I nodded. “If he goes for everything, nine is the magic number.”

  “We’ll have to get together with Dayton Corliss as soon as possible and whatever local AUSA who will be advising the task force.”

  I added, “I hesitate to say this, but you may want to keep the Blount County District Attorney in the dark about this as long as possible. He’s got a real chummy history with Leary.”

  Carl shook his head, showing the frustration of a pitcher who missed a perfect game by one walk. “We don’t need a complication like that.”

  The waitress dropped off two glasses of red wine for Ralph and me and a vodka martini for Carl.

  Ralph raised his glass. “Salute.”

  Carl said, “Success,” and drained half in one gulp.

  “We certainly live in interesting times,” was my contribution.

  The Justice Department’s office complex didn’t let me down. It was at least as posh as the place where the FBI agents hung their fedoras two floors below at 710 Locust Street in Knoxville, where I began my morning having a brief powwow with Carl Harmon, Ralph Oliveri and his partner, Bonnie Rowatt. Five minutes before the appointed hour, we took the elevator up to Heidi Piper’s suite where she and Dayton Corliss waited.

  Six modern armchairs had been set in a circle in front of Heidi’s desk. There was enough room for us to play badminton, but we’d settle for a conference on the Riverside Strangler.

  The circular arrangement immediately reminded me of two things: The way King Arthur and his knights discussed matters in and around Camelot, and since the Feds were heavily involved, a somewhat derogatory term used for certain Chinese get-togethers, upon which I won’t elaborate. I hoped our meeting stuck more to the Arthurian standards.

  Before Heidi’s secretary left the room, she asked if anyone wanted coffee. Corliss already had a cup. Carl and Heidi said yes. Ralph, Bonnie and I were nos. I didn’t think a request for scotch was an option.

&
nbsp; Before settling into our seats, Carl handled the introductions. “Sam, this is Heidi Piper, a supervising AUSA for the Knoxville district. She will be advising the Strangler task force.”

  “We’ve met,” she said and extended a hand. “Sam handed us a rather colorful Eastern European hood who provided information for our people in New York and New Jersey. Nice to see you again.”

  I smiled like a visiting diplomat. “My pleasure.”

  Heidi was a tall and trim brunette who pulled her hair back in a low-slung ponytail. Her uniform of the day was a burgundy pantsuit over a white blouse.

  “And this is Dayton Corliss,” Carl said. “As you know, he’s come from Nashville to lead the investigation into the brutality complaint against Ryan Leary.”

  “Good morning,” I said and did the handshake thing again.

  Corliss was a few inches short of six foot and in good enough shape to make me think he stopped off to play squash with the boys at least three times a week. His expensive-looking pearl gray suit screamed government yuppie.

  But, I thought, he shouldn’t feel too superior because in only two-inch heels, Heidi had him by half an inch and was a hell of a lot better looking.

  The coffee arrived, and we all sat to discuss the preliminaries.

  After fifteen minutes of listening to me, Heidi asked, “Who did you use to infiltrate Leary’s computers?”

  “His name is Lonnie Ray Wilson. He works out of Maryville.”

  “Would he be willing to meet with our technicians after we establish that the data we already have would lead us to believe Leary might be the killer?”

  “For seventy-five bucks an hour, Lonnie will tell your fortune with a computerized Ouija board.”

  Corliss sounded a little skeptical. “Is this man reliable?”

  “I think so. Have your techs speak with him and let them determine his expertise. He’s realistic and seems honest. He worked diligently, and at one point when he didn’t achieve the results he expected, he offered to waive the day’s pay. I’m no computer whiz, but I’m satisfied with what he’s achieved.”