13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  He drove with the light pre-rush-hour traffic and sipped the hot coffee. People were gathering at bus stops. Some stood, reading the paper, others collected on the benches, eyes forward, not acknowledging the person beside them. The traffic grew heavier closer to downtown.

  His thoughts drifted back to the dinner the night before. He had loyal friends. He hadn’t planned to shut them out, it just happened slowly. Ignoring a call here and there became a habit. His twisted brain thought if he didn’t see his friends, then he wouldn’t think about Maggie. He wouldn’t think about work if he wasn’t around Charlie and Sam and hearing their cop stories.

  Maybe he needed extra time with Dr. Keller. Another sip of coffee. He’d just parked in the police lot and was reaching for his suit jacket when Griffin radioed him.

  Brad parked in the no-parking zone in front of the café. It was in the corner of an older sandstone building downtown, and if you didn’t know it was there, you’d probably miss it. Brad found Griffin, appearing dapper in a charcoal gray suit, at a table by the window. The other twenty chairs were occupied. Two uniformed cops sat in the back corner.

  The waitress swung by and filled Brad’s cup. “Nectar of the gods.”

  “Some things never change.” Griffin grinned. “You still need coffee to feel human.”

  “This is my second one.” Brad raised the cup and took a drink. “It’s in your best interest as my partner to make sure I get my coffee. If you don’t, well, you don’t want to find out.”

  Griffin grunted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Brad’s portable radio announced, “Downtown units, EMS is responding to a man down, Ford dealership, Ninth Avenue West. Unknown cause. We got a few calls. Some said heart attack and others say he’s bleeding.”

  Brad lowered the volume on the radio.

  Griffin took a sip of coffee and leaned forward. “I’m glad you’re back at work and I can live with you being my partner. But I gotta ask, you doing okay? Are you ready for work?”

  Brad swirled the coffee and stared at the spinning liquid. He was already tired of the question. “I’m not okay. I never will be.” His eyes were glued to the coffee. “People say time heals all wounds. That’s bullshit. This will never heal. I need to live with it and move forward. A part of me died that day. Two parts. To my last breath I will think of Maggie and what could have been.”

  “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

  “I screwed up and they died.”

  “Whoa, buddy.” Griffin placed his hands on the table, leaned toward Brad. His voice deepened. “That’s a lot of guilt to pack around. You were in an impossible situation, but you did more than any cop could.”

  Brad shook his head. “Not enough.”

  “Back to my second question. Are you ready for work?” Griffin paused and stared at Brad. “I gotta know you’re dialed in. That you’ve got my back.”

  The waitress refilled their coffee. Brad set his cup on the table and stared at Griffin. “I’m ready. I’m focused and I will always have your back.” He glanced down at the table, then lifted his head. “I’m glad Archer assigned me to work with you. I don’t trust many people. But I trust you—with my life.”

  Griffin sipped his coffee as he scrutinized Brad. “So, I don’t have to worry about the angry Brad from Saturday night showing up?”

  “Won’t happen again.”

  Griffin pointed his coffee cup at Brad. “You wouldn’t want to get blood on your pretty suit.”

  Brad glanced at his clothes. “What?”

  Griffin smirked. “That come directly from Italy?”

  “Hey, your suit is lovely, too. Can’t be one from the police association discount rack.”

  “I didn’t want to seem like some court-appointed lawyer compared to you. It’s just that this is the one tailored suit I have. I won’t be showing up in a different designer suit every day like you.”

  “You might be surprised to learn I have two faults—I like suits and I like fancy cars.”

  “You’re selling yourself short.” Griffin raised his coffee and peered over the rim. “You have way more than two faults.”

  When their pagers went off, they glanced at the message—shooting at the Shell station on Seventeenth Avenue and Fifth Street SW.

  “Ah, damn.” Brad glanced longingly at his coffee, then sprinted out the door.

  “We’ll take my company car,” Griffin said. The tires squealed as he raced out of the parking lot behind the café, clipping the curb.

  “I see your driving hasn’t improved.” Brad activated the lights and siren.

  “Already with the sarcasm.” Griffin accelerated through a red light and ignored the glares from drivers and the honking horns. “Maybe you are ready for work.”

  Brad grabbed the dash. “I haven’t heard of a shooting for months.”

  “Yeah. It’s been quiet while you were off.” Griffin threw a quick glance toward Brad. “I wonder if there’s a connection.”

  “Woo-hoo,” Brad said. “A zinger right back. You know, I missed that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Griffin followed an ambulance toward the gas station. Police cruisers coming from the other direction skidded to a stop in the parking lot. Griffin parked on the street and had barely stopped when Brad jumped out of the car and surveyed the scene. Bystanders were standing three deep around the gas pumps. Brad pushed into the crowd at the pumps. “Move away. Let the paramedics in.”

  Brad stepped back, giving Dixon and Thompson room to work. A thirty-year-old male was slumped against the pump. There was a tiny hole in his forehead with some blood—no active bleeding. Thompson checked for a pulse and shook his head. They rolled the patient onto his side. The entire back of the patient’s head was blown off.

  Thompson and Dixon glanced at each other and headed over to Brad and Griffin.

  “Hey, Griffin,” Dixon said. “Who’s the new guy?”

  “He appears familiar,” Thompson said.

  Brad smirked. “Real funny, guys. Nice to see you, too.”

  Griffin glanced at the body. “That’s not good.”

  “Nope,” Thompson said. “Not conducive to life.”

  “Mighty big word for a little man,” Dixon said.

  Thompson ignored his partner. “Only one thing does that. Gunshot.”

  Brad nodded. “A high-powered rifle.”

  “That’s the second one this morning,” Dixon said.

  Brad’s head swung to Dixon. “What?”

  “Yeah. We just came from the hospital. About forty minutes ago, we got called to a man down. It appeared his lawnmower had exploded. He was cut up and we could see chunks of metal embedded in his body, chest and back. But at the hospital, when they examined him, they decided he was shot first. The mower was self-propelled and kept going when he dropped. When it hit the curb, the blade shredded on the concrete and sprayed shrapnel everywhere.”

  “Well, shit,” Brad said.

  “Damn.” Griffin glared at Brad. “You’re barely back a day and we got two homicides.”

  “You can thank me for the overtime we’re going to get. Let’s talk to the witnesses.”

  “All right,” Griffin said. “Let’s split up.”

  Brad spoke to the uniformed cops first on scene and they pointed to a lady sitting on the bumper of the ambulance. Brad headed over.

  “Hi, I’m Detective Coulter. What’s your name?”

  “Naomi.”

  “Hi, Naomi. I understand you saw what happened.”

  “I’m not sure. I was filling my car, then I heard a sharp bang. I thought a car had backfired, or a tire blew. I peered toward the street where the sound came from, but saw just vehicles driving past. When I turned back, I saw a man slumped by the gas pump. I thought he’d fallen. I stopped filling my car and called to him. He didn’t answer, so I headed over. That’s when I saw the blood. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran into the station and got the clerk to call 911. I stayed inside. I know I should have tried to help hi
m, but I just couldn’t.”

  “Don’t worry about that. There was nothing you could have done for him. Calling 911 was the right thing to do.”

  “Was he … was he shot?”

  “We think so.”

  “Oh my god. Why would someone do that? It could have been me.”

  “Naomi, can you think of anything that could help us?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about any vehicles speeding away?”

  Again, she shook her head. “There were just lots of cars on the street. No one vehicle stood out. I just took a glance. Then I saw the man lying there. Well, after that I remember little. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brad met up with Griffin at their car. “You get anything?”

  “Nothing that’s gonna help us. The clerk was reading the paper. He hears cars backfire all the time, so he doesn’t check it out. He didn’t know anything was wrong until your lady rushed in. No one else was at the pumps except the lady and the dead guy. I’ve got some uniformed guys checking other businesses. But I don’t think they’ll get anything we can use.”

  “This gas station got any cameras?”

  “Nah. They run these stations on the cheap. Never get surveillance here.”

  The radio interrupted them. “All units, woman down. Gas station, Twelfth Avenue and Macleod Trail SE. The caller says a woman is under her car.”

  “That’s about ten blocks away,” Brad said.

  They jumped into Griffin’s car and raced off. Within fifty seconds, they were pulling in. There was one car at the pumps with a few people standing by the car. As Brad approached, he saw two young children in the back seat peering out the window. He turned to a man dressed in a shirt with the gas station logo.

  “Police,” Brad said. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. She was pumping gas. When I glanced that way, I couldn’t see her, but the hose was still in the car. I came out and found her under the car.”

  “Griffin, get the kids. I’ll get her out from under the car.” He dropped onto his belly and slid as far as he could under the car. A young woman, late twenties, lay under the vehicle. Blood was pooling around her head from a wound in her neck. Brad reached out to touch her neck. He felt for a pulse—he wasn’t sure. He grabbed her shirt collar, then dragged her out. Brad glanced up. Griffin held the two children, both under the age of five. Then an ambulance pulled in beside them. Amir Sharma and Jill Cook jumped out.

  Cook knelt beside the lady and began her assessment.

  “I don’t know if I felt a pulse,” Brad said.

  Sharma glanced at the lady and then the car. “What happened?”

  “She was pumping gas, was injured, and crawled under the car.”

  “Why would she do that?” Sharma asked.

  “She was scared,” Brad said. “We’ve had two shootings this morning. Check for entry and exit wounds—she may have been hit once, then dove for cover.”

  “No way,” Sharma said. “This can’t be happening … not here.”

  “Sharma, she’s got a faint pulse,” Cook said. “Get the stretcher. We’ve got to move.”

  Two police cruisers slid to a stop and four officers raced over.

  “Help the paramedic with the stretcher,” Brad shouted to the first two officers. He pointed to the second pair. “Get ready to escort the ambulance to the hospital.”

  Cook applied four-by-four bandages to the neck wound. She glanced at Brad. “Apply pressure to her neck. Don’t ease up.”

  He knelt next to Cook and applied pressure from both sides of her neck. He knew the paramedics would do everything they could, but in his guts, he knew their effort was futile.

  “Be careful not to—”

  Brad nodded. “Collapse her airway. I know. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Griffin had picked Brad up at the hospital and then dropped him off outside the café at ten. The plan was to meet at headquarters to put the pieces together. Brad yanked the parking ticket from under his windshield and slid into the car. He opened the glove box and stuffed the ticket in with a half-dozen others.

  He rolled down the window and slipped in a Neil Diamond cassette. He half sang, half lip-synched to Hot August Night. It was good to take a break, even for a few minutes. He exhaled deeply through pursed lips. What a morning. Pick whatever metaphor you wanted, thrown into the fire, thrown into the deep end or just ghastly Coulter luck. Likely the last.

  It started fine, coffee from Gerry’s, then another coffee with Griffin. That’s the way he liked to begin his days. Ease into it. The best thing about the day shift was there weren’t murders—until today. Deaths were supposed to happen at night when the crazies roamed the streets.

  They had little information on the first murder. Heck, no one had reported it was a murder. All they had was a name—Gregg Penner—Dixon’s description of what happened at the scene, and what the emergency physician told them at the hospital. Griffin sent detectives to the hospital to get statements. Maybe he could talk Griffin into sending the detectives to get statements from the paramedics, too.

  Penner was minding his business, mowing a lawn, and got shot in the chest. But no one knew that because he had lawnmower shrapnel embedded in his body. The gunshot wasn’t discovered until he was in the emergency department. Witnesses are gone and it was unlikely anyone got their names.

  At the second shooting, they found out about the first. This time a guy was pumping gas. One shot to the forehead. There are people at the scene, potential witnesses, but no one saw anything out of the ordinary.

  They had barely got that crime scene under control, when there was a third shooting—again at a gas station. A dealership and two gas stations. Two men and one woman, Kellie Singer. Were the victims in the wrong place? Or were the victims targeted, and the locations were random? Just a coincidence? Not bloody likely. The first two shots, fatal. Singer was hanging in there. But with that neck wound, it wasn’t promising. He shook his head. Too much to process. He started the car, pulled away from the curb, and headed toward Police Headquarters when the call came over the radio.

  “All units, reports of a shooting. Sixteenth Avenue and Edmonton Trail. Northside bus bench. Possible suicide.”

  When Brad reached Centre Street, he turned north and stomped on the accelerator. The engine responded, and the speedometer passed sixty miles per hour.

  What were the chances of a suicide on a bus bench on a morning when there’d been three shooting deaths? It made no sense. He braked and fishtailed onto Sixteenth Avenue. Ahead, to his left, people had gathered on the sidewalk. He drove across traffic, slammed the car into park and jumped out. He sprinted to the crowd. “Police. Let me through.”

  The crowd parted. He was facing a twentyish woman sitting on the bus bench, her head fully extended. There was a hole midpoint in her forehead. Blood had trickled back toward her hair. No blood trickled now. For someone who had experienced such a tragic death, she appeared surprisingly at peace. She’d never known what happened.

  He tentatively reached to her neck and felt for a pulse. None. Her skin was already cool.

  “Everyone, move back ten steps.” At best, they took five steps.“Did she commit suicide?” a woman asked.

  “Did anyone see a gun?”

  Several shook their heads. Brad stepped back and glanced around the bus bench and underneath. No gun.

  “Did anyone see her collapse?”

  Again, shaking of heads.

  An ambulance, a dozen police vehicles, the EMS supervisor, and two firetrucks pulled up, jamming Sixteenth Avenue. They parked anywhere they could, then descended on the crime scene. There were cops, paramedics and firefighters everywhere. It was too late—the scene was contaminated.

  Chaos.

  He circled the victim. He didn’t know what he was searching for but hoped he’d recognize it. If it was the same killer and he used a high-powered rifle, then based on where she sa
t, the shot had come from across the street, near the 7-Eleven or Peters’ Drive-In. Peters’ was closed, so a sniper might not be seen there. 7-Eleven was busy, with cars and pedestrians moving in and out in a steady stream. Not from there.

  He traced the path he thought the bullet would have followed. Then he headed across the street, to a point behind the drive-in. As he got close to the fence, he swerved to the right, hoping he didn’t disturb evidence, then to the fence, rotated and glanced back at the victim. He nodded. Right here, give or take a foot, was where the shot came from. He knelt and examined the ground. Tire tracks crisscrossed each other, and it was hard to tell which tire mark was the most recent. Yet there were no recent footprints. His instinct said the shot had come from here. He flagged two officers standing outside their car and directed them to put up police tape in a wide arc around the tire prints.

  While the cops rolled out the tape, he glanced back across the street.

  This victim wasn’t shot at a gas station, but there was one directly behind her. Was a pattern emerging or just another shooting of opportunity? He doubted they’d find a single link between the victims. That wasn’t what this was about. Not victims, then. Locations? Why gas stations? Why three different companies? The car dealership was the exception. But it was the first. Was that significant? Too many things were spinning through his head. He wasn’t going to solve this standing here.

  More questions than answers. A car started to his right. He watched an unmarked police car leave the 7-Eleven parking lot. Too many cops anyway.

  Was the shooting over? He hoped so. His gut told him otherwise. He wished his gut was wrong, but it seldom was. He headed back across the street.

  Four scenes, four victims—three confirmed dead. Four shots from a distance and a high-powered rifle. Another perfect shot, as sick as that sounded. Three out of four shots were instant killers. Three shots to the head and one to the chest. Not good shooting, expert shooting. The killer knew what he was doing. And with a high-powered rifle as the likely murder weapon … did Calgary have a sniper on the loose?