by Ian Jones
Milner moved in fast and pushed Collis back hard against the open door, pinning him with his left hand and grabbing handcuffs off his belt, then spun him around, forcefully pulling his arms behind his back.
John wasn’t needed, he just watched. Milner was a pro.
But Collis offered no resistance, and the cuffs were snapped on, then Milner pulled him backwards out the house making him stumble. John called Fairhead and was told the FBI were rolling.
Milner stood back and looked at Collis then read him his rights, the short version, automatically.
‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have one present during any questioning.’
Collis nodded dumbly, still trying to work out who John was, it was clear he remembered him from somewhere, but where?
Milner looked at John and nodded.
‘Anthony Collis, you are arrested on three counts of murder, the FBI are on their way and will be handling this investigation,’ John told him.
‘The British guy. I remember you now,’ Collis said. ‘But who am I supposed to have murdered?’
‘Helmut Romann, Lucille Canour and Giovanni Trisi. That we know about.’
‘Who the hell are they? You got the wrong guy, you’re gonna …’
John held up his hand interrupting him.
‘Save it. No point saying anything to us. Tell the Feds.’
Milner pushed Collis so he was sitting on the ground, and then got on his radio to tell the other officers the situation. The door was still standing open into the house.
‘Anyone else inside?’ Milner asked.
Collis shook his head.
‘It won’t be a woman anyway,’ John said and Milner laughed.
Two cars approached, moving fast, and screeched to a stop in the middle of the road. Two more dark blue Ford Crown Victoria’s identical to his loan. Fairhead jumped out beaming. A van pulled in close behind and three people climbed out and started pulling on paper suits and shoes.
Fairhead joined them by the front door and looked down at Collis, who gave him a sullen glance.
‘Been inside?’ he asked.
Both John and Milner shook their heads.
‘We don’t know if there is anyone else in there, he says not,’ Milner said.
‘Right, thanks.’
Fairhead took out a sheet of paper from an inside pocket and dropped it in Collis’s lap.
‘Warrant. That’s for you,’ he told him.
There were now two more agents standing there with Fairhead and behind them the search team; two men and a woman.
Fairhead pulled out his Glock and indicated to the other agents who did the same.
‘Stay behind me,’ he told John, and they entered the house.
The front door opened straight into the living room, which led into an open plan kitchen at the rear and a short hallway to the right. The room felt cluttered, there was a long sofa all the way down the left wall, and a big TV in the right corner next to the window, which was playing cartoons with the sound turned all the way down. Then there was the hallway, and on the other side a long trestle table covered in computer hardware. John could see a laptop, two desktop PC’s and a big black server under the table. There were monitors, mice, keyboards and miles of cables everywhere along with a couple of boxes with flashing LED’s on them. The kitchen was simple, old fashioned units down one wall and a small table with one chair. Down the hallway the bathroom was first on the right, and a tiny box room opposite. The master bedroom was down at the front of the house, and a smaller second bedroom to the rear. The house was clear, there was nobody else there.
Collis was taken to one of the FBI cars and put in the back, then was driven off and the search began.
John walked around carefully staying out the way, trying to get a sense of who Collis was and how he lived. There were no photographs anywhere, nothing personal at all. The house wasn’t particularly untidy but was dusty and uncared for. In the kitchen, there was a dirty bowl in the sink, presumably from breakfast but not much else, only really some basic food and plates and cups for one person. The search team methodically went through everything, carefully packing up the computers which would be taken away for analysis. The box room was literally that; filled with boxes. The team went through each one and here, there was evidence of family life, ornaments, pictures, even cartons of clothing. Collis had obviously packed it all away once the house was his and just stacked it out the way. The master bedroom had a wardrobe less than a quarter full of clothes, and a chest of drawers the same. Collis’s passport was taken away, but there was no other documentation anywhere. The bed sheets were grubby and there was a pile of dirty clothes in one corner. Everywhere was searched.
The second bedroom had a single bed in it, unmade and nothing else.
John walked outside and looked in the garage, which contained a fourteen-year-old beige Ford Taurus that looked as if it hadn’t moved for a while. The car was locked. There wasn’t much else to see, a tired lawn mower, a few ancient gardening tools and a battered, old-fashioned washing machine. He left the door open and went back into the house.
There was some excitement, the guns had been found. The Smith & Wesson revolver and the Ruger rifle. The .22 weapons. They were in a wooden box under the bed in the master bedroom, along with three cartons of ammunition. Fairhead had gloves on and was looking at them carefully, John crouched down next to him.
‘The rifle has been recently fired,’ Fairhead told him.
John looked at the gun; it was an early model Scout with a worn wooden body and fitted with a Hawke sight.
‘Not the murder weapon,’ Fairhead said.
‘No,’ John agreed. ‘We knew about these two guns, I’m guessing he just uses them for target practice. Collis is in some local gun club.’
Fairhead nodded.
‘Yeah, we saw that. I think we need to talk to them next. See if he keeps anything there.’
The guns were bagged up and the search continued. John stepped outside. He looked around at the other houses in the street. They were no more than thirty or so years old, give or take and were all the same design. A couple of them had been through some improvements over the years, there was an extension here and there, and a few had smart gardens. Nobody had come out to watch what was going on, which was unusual in John’s experience.
Fairhead came out behind him and walked over to the state cops, who were standing beside the car parked out the front. He spoke to them for a while, and they got ready to move out. John walked over and shook their hands and thanked them, and they drove off.
Fairhead stretched and looked at the house.
‘Let’s leave them to it, go and check out this gun club, see if they can be of any help.’
He walked over to the car and John got in beside him. It was a complicated manoeuvre to get back out of the road because of all the vehicles parked in the centre, but he did it finally, and they set off heading east.
‘We passed the club on the way in,’ Fairhead told him.
It was about five miles out of town, they drove through a massive expanse of nothing, then there was a simple fence on the left and finally a couple of buildings came into view. Then there was a turning, with a sign that said ‘The Rock Gun Club’ and another underneath that read ‘MEMBERS ONLY’ in bright red, and then finally a third that said ‘DANGER! KEEP OUT’.
The gates were open so Fairhead made the turn and drove down the track to a square of beaten earth which had several vehicles parked on it, mostly pick-ups. They could hear the sounds of shots being fired, rifle and hand guns. There was an insignificant low building with the word ‘Office’ written above the door and next to it a barn which stretched away behind.
They walked into the office, which was nothing more than a small cabin with a counter at the back. A man in his sixties with his grey hair shaved in a buzz cut stood behind it wearing a faded green t
-shirt. He was writing something on a pad and looked up when they entered.
‘Members only,’ he said automatically.
Fairhead produced his ID, and the man seemed to shrink back.
‘What the hell do you want?’ he asked. ‘I am legal you know, nothing in this goddamn place there shouldn’t be. And nobody does any shooting here I don’t know.’
‘Yeah I bet,’ thought John, but he said nothing, instead walked over to the counter and turned around the register that was laid there. It was a thick book of dates, times and names.
‘You see?’ the man said. ‘Everybody has to sign in and out, and I ain’t at all sure you’re allowed to read that.’
John shrugged and closed the book, sliding it back over the counter. Fairhead scratched his head.
‘We’re not here to close you down. We just need to ask you some questions about one of your members and would appreciate your help.’
‘What’s your setup here?’ John asked suddenly.
The man looked at him sharply, confused by the accent, wondering who he was.
‘Nothing fancy. Handgun range indoors, two rifle ranges outside, one two hundred and the other four hundred yards.’
They could still hear the shots firing.
‘What can you tell me about Anthony Collis?’ Fairhead asked.
The man looked at them, still trying to work out who John was and why he was there.
‘Who’s he?’ he asked, talking to Fairhead and nodding over at John.
‘John is someone working with us. Please answer the question.’
The man moved behind the counter and dragged a stool across then sat down heavily.
‘I ain’t got nothing to say. I hardly know him.’
‘But he’s a member here?’
‘Yeah, but it’s not like we stand around shooting the shit or nothing. He don’t say much.’
The man clammed up and looked at his nails.
John glanced at Fairhead.
‘You keep guns here?’ he asked.
The man looked up.
‘Some, but only ours. For competitions mainly. So not really, members bring their own. We got rules.’ He looked hopefully at Fairhead.
‘Can I see them?’ John asked.
‘What, the rules?’ the man asked, confused.
‘No, we’re not interested in the regulations.’ John replied. ‘We’d like to see the guns you have here.’
The man looked at Fairhead again.
‘Please,’ Fairhead said pleasantly.
The man sighed and stood up and went to a door set into the right wall behind the counter. John and Fairhead climbed over and followed him in. Better safe than sorry. Inside was a narrow room with a toilet at one end and a locked steel cabinet at the other. The man unlocked and opened it and then stood back.
There were three rifles inside, in a line pointing upwards. Two Remingtons and a Winchester. They were all old model, but looked in reasonable condition. There was a shelf toward the bottom loaded with boxes of ammo, and below several handguns. John looked closely at the rifles and then back at Fairhead.
‘.308s’ he told him.
Fairhead nodded and began writing down the serial numbers on all the guns.
The man was standing very still watching uneasily. He didn’t look worried, but unsure what he was supposed to be doing. John looked at him carefully, and then took out the Glock Fairhead had loaned him from the holster.
‘Would you mind?’ he asked, holding the gun up.
The man looked at both of them then shrugged and led the way back out. He opened a hatch in the counter top and they filed out the front of the office and then over to the barn.
Inside was a long sectioned off counter, with ten clearly numbered shooting bays set into it. Two men were standing at the far end and they looked over.
‘Number one,’ the man said and reached up and yanked on a rope to one side. He attached a simple target and then pulled on the rope again and the target was sent to the back of the range. He put on a set of ear defenders and handed another to Fairhead then stood to one side. John stepped up to the counter and looked down to the bottom.
Handguns are not known for their accuracy, especially over distance. The range was fairly standard fifty yards, but the man had pulled the target all the way back past the marker point so it was a fair length longer now. But John was a good shot, and well trained. He knew the gun would be good, the FBI wouldn’t make mistakes like that. He pulled on ear defenders.
He moved forward and worked the slide on the top then took up the stance, holding the gun two-handed and relaxed, breathing slowly, then lined up the foresight with the target, which seemed a long way away now.
No matter.
No safety on the Glock, just a clever release mechanism, he squeezed the trigger, and let loose. One after the other, unmoving, solid, almost rapid fire, despite ear defenders the gun loud and blasting away in the confined space. One, two, three, he fired off ten rounds and then raised the gun up and stepped back. The two men at the end had moved closer and were staring down the range. The club man looked stunned and reached up to winch in the target.
The centre was completely destroyed, but only the centre, a dime sized hole.
The man held the target out, unsure.
‘Shit. That is good fucking shooting,’ one of the men standing nearby said and the other whistled, long and low.
‘Let’s go outside,’ John said, and they walked back out again.
In the car park John turned to the man.
‘Right. So, let’s start again. You’re army I reckon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ok, what branch?’
‘Fourth infantry.’
‘Rank?’
‘I was a sergeant, an E-8.’
‘So you knew your stuff then, you were a good soldier.’
‘I did ok.’
‘Gulf?’
‘Yeah, 1990.’
‘Same here.’
Fairhead looked at him surprised, but the man visibly changed immediately. He smiled and reached out a hand.
‘I knew there was something. Sergeant Thomas Clancy, US Army, pleased to meet you.’
John shook his hand and smiled back.
‘John Smith. British Army, once upon a time.’
‘What branch were you?’
‘First Para,’ John replied cautiously, he didn’t like to talk about his past.
The man nodded and smiled again.
‘I remember you guys, hardcore.’
‘So now, let’s start again. What can you tell me about Anthony Collis?’
Clancy shrugged.
‘Ok, look, I’m real sorry I was being a smartass, but I weren’t bullshitting. I don’t really know him at all. He only comes here once in a while these days, it used to be a lot, but he never says much, and he’s always on his own, brings his old Ruger down. Mostly.’
‘Has he got another rifle, not his Smith & Wesson?’ asked Fairhead.
Clancy nodded.
‘Yeah he has. Maybe more than a year ago, he came down here with a Mossberg, a Predator, looked new. He brought it back here a couple of times.’
Fairhead looked at John questioningly who nodded back.
‘Yeah, it’s a 7.62, we need to find it. What range did he use?’ John asked.
‘Normally he was always on the two hundred, but sometimes he used the four for the Mossberg. I asked him about it, it’s a real nice gun but he didn’t say much. He told me he bought it cheap on the internet, but I’d say that was bullshit. Like I said, the thing was new. And that is a good gun.’
‘Yeah, it is,’ John agreed.
‘Is he a good shot?’ Fairhead asked.
Clancy laughed.
‘No, not really. About average I’d say. No, worse than that. Barely even hits the target on the four hundred. But he loves his guns.’
‘One more question,’ John looked seriously at Clancy.
‘What?’
‘W
ho told you not to say anything? You were desperate when we came in, I’ll bet you even thought the FBI badge was a fake.’
Clancy looked around him and his shoulders sagged.
‘Look, when he first turned up with the Mossberg, he had a couple of other fellas with him, older guys, one of them a mean guy with a bad beat up face. The other one was this real military lifer pain in the ass. They made it clear to me, that they weren’t there. I ain’t seen them. None of them, and the beat up guy puts down this bit of paper with my address on it. Right on the counter. I got a family. I ain’t the greatest dad, or husband, but …’
John nodded.
‘I understand. You see those guys ever again?’
Clancy shook his head.
‘No. And Anthony never said nothing about it, but I remember he was acting all proud that day, like he’d been given the gold key or something. But I never saw them before, didn’t know them at all.’
‘Ok. Thanks for your time.’ John shook Clancy’s hand, who looked at him seriously.
‘Do I got to be worried?’ he asked.
John patted him on the shoulder, shook his head and they left, Fairhead drove back to Collis’s house.
‘What was that all about back there, you showing off?’ he asked as they followed the road back into the town.
John shook his head.
‘No, I know the type. Army right through, the only way to get him to open up is if he talks to one of his brothers. He was nervous, straight away. He didn’t believe you were FBI, I could see that. He thought we were checking him out, he was asking himself why some British guy is there asking about Anthony Collis?’
‘You believed him, about his family and the guys turning up?’
‘Yeah I did, I reckon it’s been on his mind.’
‘So it was true then? You were in the Gulf?’
‘Unfortunately.’
The arrived back at the house and an agent came sprinting across to them holding a mobile phone.
‘I was just about to call, quick, check this out! They found it in the attic’
They got out the car and walked quickly across to the house. The agents were standing in a circle inside.
In an open flight case on the living room floor was a rifle. A Mossberg Predator. It was packed inside a shaped foam insert, with a Leica sight and a square black plastic box. One of the agents opened the lid on the box, it was full of NATO rounds, full metal jacket.