“We get our share of homicides in these parts,” he said. “Tend to be more of the Mom and Pop variety…you know…cabin fever and carving knives, that sort of thing. But we do know a little something about maintaining crime scene integrity.”
He reached up over the sun visor and pulled down a manila envelope. “We found this weighted down by a rock,” he said offering it to Craig.
Craig folded back the flap and peered inside. He used two fingers to pull a plastic
sleeve from the envelope. Inside was a newspaper article. Chicago Tribune. Presidential Commendations For Eight the headline read. Eight headshot photos, six of which had been meticulously crossed out with red crayon, leaving only Secret Service agents Gilbert Fowles and Jackson Craig unblemished.
“You mind if I ask you a question?” Letzo inquired.
“Certainly,” Jackson Craig said. “Have at it.”
“Well, “ he began. “from what I gather from that article, Bryce Caldwell was really a former ATF agent named Steve Wald. I file a report and next thing I know I’m sitting out here with a genuine Secret Service agent. One of the agents pictured in a newspaper article we found at the scene of the crime.” He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You gotta forgive me for being a mite curious about what’s goin on.”
“I understand,” Craig said. “ But, as much as I appreciate your efforts, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share that information.”
An awkward silence settled over the car’s interior. Craig’s refusal violated the sheriff’s good ol’ boy lawman code.
Sensing the sheriff’s pique, Craig put a hand on his arm. “I’m not just pulling rank here, Sheriff,” he assured Letzo. “If I could tell you, believe me I would. Unfortunately, this is part of a highly classified investigation.”
Took a moment, but the sheriff went down to a simmer. He nodded resignedly and then banged the horn three times. The other cruiser came alive. The driver collected himself, buttoned up and climbed down onto the frozen ground. “I’ve had somebody up here twenty-four seven since we found the body. Four hour shifts. A popular posting among the rank and file.”
The deputy swung the barrier out of the way. Sheriff Letzo eased the car through the opening. “If you don’t mind,” the sheriff said. “I’m just gonna let you draw your own conclusions, if that’s okay.”
“Perfect,” Craig said. Working with federal law enforcement authorities was not high on any county sheriff’s list. Sheriffs enjoyed a great deal of autonomy and were generally not subject to external scrutiny, which was just the way they liked it.
“State Forensic techs have already been over the scene. That was before we knew how much attention this was going to get us. I know you boys prefer to use your own but…” He shrugged and let it hang.
The sheriff found a navy blue wool cap over the visor and pulled it down over his ears, then fished around between the seats and found a pair of oversized mittens. He shouldered the door open.
“Let’s go,” he said. Craig followed him out.
Craig hunched his shoulders against the cold as they slipped and skated around the front of the car. The bright blue tarp snapped in the wind. The bright sunlight reflecting off the blue plastic made him feel a bit like he was under water.
Below them, the arched glass front of the swimming pool was the sole curve in the ocean of straight lines that made up Homewell, Wyoming. Craig brought the NIKON binoculars to his eyes, then brought them down. Under magnification, the miles of yellow police tape cordoning off the aquatic center were readily visible. He shuffled two paces to his left and repeated the process. Then back to the center and two paces to the right.
Craig was working out a line of fire, trying to visualize precisely where the shooter must have set up. He pointed down the mountain.
“How would one get from down there to up here,” he asked.
“One wouldn’t,” the sheriff said. “You wanna get up here this time of year, you get a snow mobile and you come around from the other side,” the sheriff said. “This road winds up one side and down the other. Comes out on the Flying Crow Ranch over in Diamond Valley. Better part of twenty miles by county road. That’s Stratton County over there. Whoever it was came in from over there. Twice, I’m told.”
“How about from this side?” Craig wanted to know.
“Just the gate we passed on our way up here,” Letzo said. “Kids used to paint the school’s initials up here every spring.” His expression spoke of nostalgia. “Few years back one of the Cummings kids took a fall and broke his back in a couple places. City attorneys say we’ve got to keep it locked up. Limit our liability.”
“Which means what?” Craig asked. “Assuming this person isn’t a local, or doesn’t have a local on the payroll, the only other alternative I can think of is that the shooter managed to plan the whole thing using nothing but maps.”
“Or he’d been up here more than we know. Maybe when there was no snow on the ground.”
Craig nodded in agreement. “I’ll bet you’re right,” he said. “He’d been planning this for quite a while. He was ready.”
“Quite a feat,” Letzo said.
“He’s very well trained. Very flexible,” Craig said. “Lots of up front preparation. Uses whatever’s at hand. Makes the best of it.”
“Hell of a shot too,” the sheriff offered. “We had deer hunters could shoot like that wouldn’t be a live deer in the whole damn state.”
By way of a response, Craig pulled a small black device from his coat pocket. He sighted through the digital range finder, made several corrections and then pushed a button. He turned his back toward the sun, shading the screen with his body.
“Just under seven hundred and ten yards,” he announced.
The sheriff’s low whistle was sincere.
“Good location choice,” Craig added. “Prevailing wind in your face. No cross drift.” He nodded in admiration. “Escape route that comes down in another jurisdiction…outside any conceivable law enforcement perimeter.” He pocketed the range finder and brought the binoculars to his eyes. “Rather professionally planned and executed,” he conceded. “But overly theatrical.”
“Why theatrical?” The sheriff asked, sweeping his gaze over the town below.
“You want to kill a man,” Craig began “…why do it in the middle of Main Street at high noon?” He waved a gloved hand. “He keeps a fairly regular schedule. His wife’s in the hospital. He’s living alone. Surely there must have been some more surreptitious way to kill the man than dragging a sniper’s rifle way up here for the purpose of shooting the man in front of half the town.”
A sudden gust of wind swirled the snow, filling the air with ice pellets. They waited for the snow to settle.
“That’s a darn good question, now isn’t it,” the sheriff said.
__
“He’s toying with us,” Jackson Craig said as he stepped forward and dropped the Chicago Tribune article on Bobby Duggan’s desk.
Bobby studied the page for several minutes, ran a hand over his hair and finally looked up at Jackson Craig. “Why would he want to do that?” he asked.
“Publicity?”
“In a roundabout way, I suppose,” Craig said.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“He wanted to make certain Special Agent Wald’s death would make the newspapers, rather than how shall we say being ‘swept under the rug’, so to speak.”
“In the manner of Harry Joyce’s death.”
Craig nodded. “What bothers me most is that it’s all just so damned inconsistent.” He pointed down at Bobby’s desk. “On one hand it’s like we’re dealing with a school child here.” Bobby looked annoyed. “All the little X’s through the faces. Drawn with a ruler, like he’s in middle school.”
“And on the other?”
“On the other hand…” Craig took in a deep breath. “On the other hand, the Wyoming scene was extremely well-planned and executed. Nothing in the least to suggest the work of an amateur. From the set-up position, your average deer hunter could barely have hit the damn building. The shooter’s been professionally trained.” His tone left little room for argument.
Bobby looked dubious. “How can you be certain of something like that?”
“Either that or he just got lucky… and believe me, a shot like that has too many variables for all of them to fall into place at the same instant. Tactics, Marksmanship and Fieldcraft,” he continued. “Those are the forces a sniper has to master. What the shooter schools call ‘the tripod.’ This was seven hundred yards, downhill, sun behind, wind directly in the shooters face, with a cold barrel.” He shrugged and then added, “All of it worked out to perfection.” He caught and held Bobby’s gaze. “One shot. One kill. Professional work.”
“I’m sending you back to Europe,” he said.
“I’m not going.” Craig said flatly. “I’ve got to find this guy. I’ve got to find Gil and the family before he does. This Harry Joyce thing has to be put to rest once and for all.”
“There is absolutely no way…” Bobby insisted.
“I’m the only person remotely qualified for the job, Bobby. Anybody else… you’d have to get them security clearance and then bring them up to speed. We don’t have that kind of time here. Gil and the family don’t have that kind of time.”
Bobby looked pained. “My sainted mother, bless her soul, always used guilt in precisely that manner,” he commented with a razor thin smile.
Jackson Craig said nothing.
“Okay,” Bobby said with a theatrical sigh. “I’ll take the heat on this one. Go find Gilbert.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll be assigning you a partner for the duration of the investigation.”
Craig was shaking his head before the sentence was completed. “I’ve gotten used to working alone,” he said.
“Not this time,” Bobby said.
“I’m sure he’s a hell of an agent but…”
Duggan cut him off. “She,” he corrected. Before Craig could protest again, he asked, “When are you seeing your father?”
“Tomorrow,” Jackson Craig said.
Bobby wished him good luck and brought the phone to his ear.
It was hot.
He cursed himself again for not thinking about the difference in climates.
The pimply girl at the Fed Ex store had commented on how hot and bothered he looked as she handed over the square cardboard box containing the disassembled Ingram MAC10.
“
You
’
re not from around here are ya?
”
she said grinning at the winter jacket wedged under his arm.
His mind
’
s eye imagined puncturing her throat.
The sudden sense of relief when the tip passes through the skin and goes into free fall.
He felt his cheek quiver from the strain of pretending as he lifted the box from the counter and walked out into the California sunshine.
He heaved an inward sigh as he sauntered up the sidewalk, coat under one arm, package under the other.
See!
See!
Overnighting the weapon to himself had worked.
It gave him a momentary boost of confidence that something he
’
d dreamed up on short notice had worked so seamlessly.
He could do this.
Just like before.
And then it would be over.
Whatever over was.
Once back in the rental Subaru, he checked the surrounding area twice. Waited for a trio of elderly Mexican women to disappear around the corner and then checked the area again. Satisfied the streets were deserted, he assembled and loaded the weapon in just under a minute.
He snapped a round into the chamber, wrapped the automatic in his jacket and set it carefully on the passenger seat. He consulted the GPS in the dashboard.
Then nervously checked the time.
They weren
’
t meeting until eleven o
’
clock and the screen said the site was only three miles away. He could do it.
He could.
By the numbers now.
__
Jackson Craig stood on the flagstone walkway and looked around. Secret Service surveillance had forsaken the obligatory black SUV in favor of a blue Chrysler convertible, parked along the curb, two houses to the west on the opposite side of the street. A woman wearing a blue flowered dress leaned against the side of the car studying a brochure of some sort. “Very Southern California,” Craig mused.
Turning away from the street, he took a moment to compose himself. Charlie Craig hadn’t been a bad father. He wasn’t abusive or anything like that. He made an okay living. Pleasant enough guy to be around unless he was hammered, which tended to make him all sentimental and touchy-feely.
For a long time, Jackson Craig had blamed himself for the rift. He’d assumed that their relationship was due to some failing on his part. That he wasn’t interesting enough, or smart enough or athletic enough to hold his father’s attention and was therefore to be held responsible for the lack of intimacy. As time and circumstance repeatedly disproved that notion, Jackson Craig long ago decided to let it go at that.
A familiar voice rescued him from further ruminations.
“Jackie?” It was a question as much as a greeting.
She’d come alone. He liked her husband Dale but pleasantries would have been a chore and Craig was grateful not to be forced to bother.
Jackson stepped into Karen’s open arms and lifted her from the sidewalk.
“Thank you for coming,” she said when he set her down.
“How’s the family?” he inquired.
“Ronnie’s off to U.C.L.A. in the fall,” she said like the proud mother of two boys.
“One down, one to go,” he joked.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do when they’re both gone,” she admitted. She shrugged, “Have to take up a hobby or something.”
“Scrapbooking perhaps,” he suggested.
She smiled and bopped him on the arm. “Just the ticket,” she said.
They walked through the front doors arm in arm, crossing a tile floor into a tropical motif more akin to a Mazatlan resort than an assisted living facility, all greens and browns and yellows, lots of palms and succulents, drawing the eye here and there, anywhere but to the specter of death lounging in the corner.