The man switched on the TV and DVR, scrolled through the recorded programs to the five o’clock news, and hit play.
The news anchor introduced the bus bench murders as the top story. Standing in front of Dr. Brooks’s house, Liz reported the latest murder. After a few sound bites from the chief and public affairs officer, Sinclair approached the microphone.
“Asshole,” he whispered to the television when Sinclair left the podium. He hit rewind and watched it again.
Once the detective left the screen for a second time, the anchor returned, “It sounds as if the police have a good idea who is responsible for these heinous crimes, is that right, Liz?”
Elizabeth Schueller sat in the chair normally reserved for the coanchor. “They won’t say they have a suspect in mind, so it may be they’ve only identified the motive thus far.”
“Sergeant Sinclair says the reasons behind these gruesome acts, once revealed, will be incomprehensible. What do you think, Liz?”
“Possibly so. However, I’d love to talk with the killer and hear what happened to make him want to do these terrible things.” She stared directly into the camera, a look of determination and sincerity in her eyes.
He hit the rewind button and heard her say it again. She seemed genuine. He shuffled through the file folders on the dining table to the one titled Melissa. His original plan had scheduled her for last night, but bypassing Carol in Montclair pushed his schedule back a day. He studied his notes in the folder and verified Melissa would be working tonight and nothing else in the plan would change by pushing it back a day.
The next folder was for Liz. It contained the extensive notes he took when he tailed her and printouts from the Internet. He spent thirty minutes drafting a new plan. To make it work, he’d need to prepare a few things, which would push his schedule back another day. Nevertheless, by Sunday, it would all be over.
He took a blank folder and wrote a new name on it. A few hours ago, he had gotten off work and drove by the police parking lot. He saw Braddock’s Toyota minivan parked just inside the chain-link fence and waited. An hour passed before the minivan drove out the gate with Braddock behind the wheel. He followed her onto the freeway and settled in a few car lengths behind her. After getting off the freeway, she drove into a quiet neighborhood of suburban homes with decent-sized yards and swung into a driveway. He stopped a half block back and watched her walk into an open two-car garage crammed full of bicycles, toys, tools, and gardening equipment. At least Braddock would be easy.
But first, he needed to slow Sinclair down. He brewed a pot of coffee, and over a large cup, he worked out a plan to do just that.
*
Later that night, he walked along the sidewalk of the quiet residential neighborhood. Interspaced among small bungalows and cottages were a few duplexes and fourplex apartment buildings. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, leaving barely enough room for two cars to pass each other. Sinclair’s police car sat against the curb in front of a teal single-story apartment building. Four cars filled a small parking lot behind the building. He crept toward a metallic blue Mustang. Its chrome GT trunk decal shined under an overhead light.
He clicked his lock-blade knife open and stabbed the convertible top, then cut a slit down the center. He removed one of the plastic bottles from his cargo pants pocket, unscrewed the top, and dropped it through the slit.
He slipped around the side of the building to the bedroom window of Sinclair’s apartment. The room was dark, the apartment quiet. He removed the three remaining bottles from his pocket, set them on the ground under the window, and unscrewed the tops. The vapors burned his eyes as he crouched over them.
He drew his Berretta and fired a shot through the bedroom window.
Then he pulled the trigger twice more in rapid succession and threw the three bottles through the shattered window. He took a road flare from his pocket, removed the cap, and struck it against the igniter. Fire erupted from the top with a hiss. The smell of sulfur filled the air.
He lobbed the flare through the window and heard a loud whoosh as it ignited the gasoline vapors. He hurried to the Mustang, lit another flare, and dropped it through the slit in the top. A fireball filled the interior as he jogged down the road to his van.
Sinclair was in a deep sleep, and when he heard the first shot, he thought he was dreaming. The second shot and the sound of breaking glass, however, jolted him awake. He slid out of the recliner onto the living room floor and drew his gun. Another shot rang out as he crawled toward the sofa. Even though it wouldn’t stop bullets, he felt safer behind it.
More breaking glass from his bedroom. A whiff of gasoline.
He knew what would come next.
He had two options: stay where he was and wait for the fire or rush out the door and possibly meet a hail of bullets.
He low-crawled toward the kitchen, keeping his body as deep into the carpet as possible. A loud whoosh came from his bedroom. Flames filled the doorway, climbing toward the ceiling. He slithered across the tile floor to the back door, reached up, turned the doorknob, and flattened his belly back to the floor. He cracked the kitchen door open. Listened and peered into the darkness.
An explosion sounded and a burst of light flashed outside the door. He pulled his head back inside and pressed
his face to the cold tile, covering his head with his arms. He peeked through the doorway. Saw a large fire raging in the parking lot. Felt the heat.
Fire or bullets—he had to choose.
He scrambled across the living room on his hands and knees, flung open the front door, and leaped through the doorway. He landed in a crouch, scanning rapidly from left to right with his Sig Sauer following his eyes.
Porch lights flicked on down the street. The door of the apartment next to him swung open. To his left, nearly two hundred feet away, a man dressed in dark clothing trotted down the street.
Sinclair bellowed, “Police—freeze!” as he assumed a two-handed shooting stance.
The man looked over his shoulder, reached in his waistband, and turned with a gun in his hand.
Sinclair had fired many thousands of rounds with a pistol in his career, and hitting a target at even a hundred feet in daylight on a shooting range was difficult with a handgun. To hit a moving target that was shooting back at night at twice that distance required more luck than skill. He also knew that in gunfights, bad guys seemed to make lucky shots far more often than good guys.
He dove behind a parked car as three shots rang out and a bullet pinged off a car fender.
He quick-peeked around the parked car. The man was running. Sinclair got up and sprinted after him. He was starting to close the distance when the man suddenly stopped and turned. Sinclair dropped to the street and slid alongside a parked car as two more gunshots rang out.
Sinclair poked his head up and saw the man open the door of a dark van and jump inside. He got to his feet and
dashed toward it. The engine roared to life and the van took off down the street.
Too far away to read a license plate, Sinclair stopped, took careful aim, and fired one, then a second, and then a third shot at the vehicle. As he was aiming for a fourth shot, it turned left at the corner and disappeared from sight.
Breathing hard, Sinclair holstered his handgun and looked down at his feet and legs. His knees were bloody from crawling through broken glass and sliding on the street, and his thin dress socks were torn from running on the asphalt road. He limped back toward his apartment, leaving a trail of bloody footprints.
Sinclair stood on a disposable paper blanket outside the back door of an ambulance. A circle of cops and firefighters surrounded him to block the gawkers that had formed outside the police tape. His torn pants and shredded socks lay at his feet. A young brunette paramedic brushed the final bits of gravel from his knees with gauze and squeezed the remains of a bottle of saline solution over the road rash. He shivered as the cold water ran down his bare legs.
Braddock slipped through the circle of people surrounding him, draped a blue coat with Lafayette PD shoulder patches on it over his shoulders, and handed him a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. “You look like you’re in shock.”
“I’m fine.” He forced a smile. The coffee warmed him up. While the female paramedic applied bandages to his knees, her partner pulled a shard of glass from his thigh with forceps. Sinclair winced.
“I still recommend you go to the ER. This could use a few stitches,” said the male paramedic.
“How many times do I need to tell you—”
“I got it.” The paramedic pulled the incision apart, inserted a large syringe needle into the wound, and squirted the saline inside to irrigate it. It burned like rubbing alcohol. Sinclair clenched his teeth but didn’t utter a sound. The paramedic dried the area and applied a butterfly bandage. Braddock handed Sinclair a pair of jeans, provided by a cop several inches shorter than him.
“I like the high waters.” Braddock chuckled.
The paramedics had him sit on the back of the rig and each one examined a foot. He felt warmer now that he was dry and wearing pants. He sipped the coffee as the paramedics washed and scrubbed the soles of his feet, discarding pieces of bloody gauze in a plastic bag. They pulled another piece of glass and several sharp stones from his feet with forceps, applied butterfly bandages, and covered the raw skin with several layers of adhesive pads. Sinclair pulled on a pair of thick athletic socks and tried to put on a pair of black sneakers he had grabbed from a pile of clothes that officers and firefighters from Lafayette brought when they noticed his ripped pants and bare feet. They wouldn’t fit, so he selected another pair and put them on. He stood gingerly and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Nice shoes.” He raised each purple running shoe in turn. “With all the bandages the fuckin’ paramedics stuck on my feet, I’m glad the cop who donated them wears size sixteen.”
“They’re elevens, Matt,” said Braddock. “I’m glad your sense of humor, such as it was, is still intact.”
Three hours had passed since the shooting, and only one fire truck remained, but scores of uniformed and plainclothes cops still filled the street in front of his apartment.
Outside the yellow tape, a hundred people and dozens of reporters milled about. With the abduction of Hammond a few days ago and then a running gun battle through its quiet streets, Lafayette had seen more violent crime in the last few days than it normally saw in months.
Sergeant Edwards, a stocky man with silver hair and bushy moustache, had worked homicide for the Contra Costa County Sheriff’s Department as long as Sinclair had been a cop. Lafayette contracted with the sheriff for police services, and when a major crime occurred, their full resources were available. Edwards walked toward Sinclair’s Crown Vic, followed by a handful of investigators and an older woman in fire turnout gear. Maloney, Braddock, and Jankowski joined the group.
“Your lieutenant and I talked,” said Edwards. “This’ll be a mix of OPD’s protocol and ours. The walk-through’s purpose is only to catch this asshole and collect the evidence to put him away, not to decide whether your shooting was justified or not, although I don’t think there’s any question about it. Sometime next week, once this settles down, we’ll do a formal interview.”
“I know the routine,” said Sinclair.
“Let’s start with you falling asleep in your chair.”
Sinclair’s feet squished on the wet carpet as he stepped into the apartment behind Edwards. Water dripped from the ceiling and soot covered the walls. Sinclair slogged across the living room carpet and stood in the doorway of his bedroom. All that remained of his bed were springs and pieces of charred fabric that was once a mattress. Huge chunks of dry wall, ripped out by firefighters, lay on the floor, and pieces of furniture and clothes from his dresser lay in soggy piles.
“I’ll ask you not to touch anything,” said Edwards. “The fire marshal, arson investigators, and our crime lab will go through this over the next few days. If there’s any belongings you need right away, let me know and we’ll see if we can locate them.”
His clothes lay in water-saturated piles in the closet. The smell of burnt, wet wool reminded Sinclair of a wet dog—more like an entire kennel of them. He thought about his photo albums and the boxes of papers on the closet shelf and the keepsakes he stored in his top dresser drawer. His past—his memories.
“I can’t think of anything important,” said Sinclair.
“Have your insurance agent call me. We can let him in, but I’m sure he’ll declare it a total loss,” said Edwards.
Sinclair walked through the apartment, stopping occasionally to tell Edwards what he did, heard, or saw at each location. Then he led him outside, past the burnt hulk that used to be his Mustang, to the spot where he fired the shots at the escaping van.
When they finished, Sinclair asked, “What about the expended casings?”
“I think we got them all. The three shots you heard outside the bedroom window, five more on the street, plus your three.”
Jankowski added, “Nine millimeter—same head stamp as from the Brooks scene.”
“We found two of his slugs in a house down the street,” said Edwards. “We expect to find the other three in your apartment walls once we sift through everything.”
“Neighbors?” asked Sinclair.
Edwards studied his notes. “A few saw the gunman running. Descriptions ranged from six foot to six-four, and
one-eighty to two-forty. Your estimate was right in the middle of that. You said average or muscular build. That’s consistent with other witnesses. No one saw his face, so race and age would only be a guess.”
“Too dark and he was too far away,” said Sinclair. “No one could tell you his hair color because he was wearing a black beanie hat, low on his head.”
“One neighbor said he was wearing military-type pants with large pockets on the side,” said Edwards. “Does that mean anything?”
“Not camo ones, but maybe a civilian version of BDUs,” said Sinclair, referring to the Army’s battle dress uniform. “Dark, but not black. And now that you mention it, he was wearing a vest.”
“Kevlar—a bulletproof vest?”
“No, like a fishing or photography vest, one of those with a million pockets.”
“We’ll add that to the comm order,” said Edwards. “Anything else on the van?”
“Dark color, but with the lighting, that could be anything. Two windows in the back.”
“We found broken glass down the street, so at least one of your rounds hit its mark.”
“That’ll make it easier to recognize,” said Sinclair.
“Every cop in the state is looking for that van,” said Edwards. “How about hanging around a little longer in case we have any more questions?”
Once the sheriff’s investigators wandered off, Sinclair reached into his Crown Vic and took a cigar out of the glove box. “Do you mind?” he asked Maloney.
“Matt, if I went through what you just did, I’d be taking a snort of whiskey.”
Maloney apologized for his reference to booze. Sinclair brushed it off. When he’d killed Alonzo Moore a year ago, all he could think about was getting drunk. He didn’t feel that urge tonight. He wasn’t sure what to make of it—whether the compulsion to drink had been lifted or it was lying low for the moment, waiting to spring back with a vengeance once he lowered his guard.
Sinclair sparked his Zippo and held it with both hands to keep it steady. He noticed Maloney and Braddock watching.
“Once they’re done with you here, you need to get some rest,” said Maloney.
“I plan to take him over to my place,” said Braddock. “He can use our guest room for as long as he needs.”
“I already told you, I’m not putting you and your family in danger. This guy’s still after me.”
“Ryan and I both carry guns for a living. Let him come.”
“You’ve got kids,” said Sinclair.
“He’s right, Cathy,” said Maloney. “Let me make some calls.”