13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  He jumped off the picnic table. “Nice meeting you, Sadie. I wish you luck with your story.”

  Briscoe caught up to Brad as he headed away from Sadie. “What’d she want?”

  “Reporter searching for the scoop of the century.”

  Briscoe nodded. “Did she get one?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Good. You’ve got a frickin’ mess to sort out.”

  Brad nodded. “This is happening faster than we can keep up. We hadn’t released that there was the first murder before the second occurred. Then the third. Now number four. Maybe we should have gone to the press right away.”

  “You didn’t even know the first was a murder initially. It’s just been a few hours—that’s barely enough time to get to the crime scenes let alone address the press. You had no way of knowing there’d be more killings.” Briscoe cleared his throat. “If you go to the press too soon, you create panic. It’s easy to look back and think of a better way to do things. Hell, you don’t even have a blurry picture of what’s going on, let alone a clear one.”

  Brad faced the bus bench across the street. The Crime Scene Unit had the scene contained. The public pushed back, and a tarp blocked the bus bench from curious eyes. “I can’t believe this lady was killed just because she was sitting at that bus stop.”

  Briscoe shrugged. “Happens. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “Who’s the next person in the wrong place?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The desk sergeant at the back counter told Brad that Griffin was in the gym. Brad headed down the stairs. When he opened the gym door, there was a powerful odor of sweat—not from last night’s basketball game, but from dozens of men working as fast as they could.

  Griffin had been true to his word. The gym in the basement of Police Headquarters was buzzing with activity.

  To Brad’s left, men were unloading desks and chairs from large trolleys. To his right, a bank of six televisions on high stands were being connected to wires hanging down from the ceiling. Straight ahead, a dozen cork and whiteboards lined the wall.

  Cables hung from the ceiling as telephone technicians pulled phone lines. The gym was the command center.

  Griffin tapped Brad on the shoulder. “What do you think?”

  “You work fast.”

  “Archer set it in motion. Follow me.”

  They exited the gym and headed to the left. Griffin opened the door to a racquetball court. The court held four desks with chairs and long tables.

  “Welcome to our new office.”

  “Not too shabby.” Brad glanced up. At the back of the court, the top one-third of the wall was all glass. “We might attract an audience.”

  Griffin glanced up. “The newest exhibit at the zoo. We’ll worry about that later.”

  Brad pulled out a chair and sat. “What are your thoughts on our next steps?”

  Griffin grabbed another chair, leaned back and put his feet on the desk. “The first mistake we can make is to get tunnel vision. We need to keep our assumptions and theories about why the crime was committed, why the victims were selected, and who we think might be suspects out of our minds. We don’t make the evidence fit the scenario in our heads.”

  Brad leaned back. Was that what he was doing? Jumping ahead of the facts? But there had to be a reason, no matter how twisted, this was happening and to these people. How were they connected?

  “With four murders over two-and-a-half hours, there’s a need for urgency. We need to plan for additional shootings and structure our tactics on that. We need to provide patrol units with what to watch for. I see it as a two-pronged approach. One, how do we stop or prepare for the next shooting? Two, we need to be diligent and investigate each shooting. Solid police work will ultimately pay off.”

  “What if more people die?”

  “Then we keep doing what we’re doing,” Griffin said. “Gather evidence, interview witnesses, keep digging. We can’t do this investigation based on what ‘might’ happen next.”

  Was it possible these people were collateral damage, that they were in the way of a shot meant for someone else? Targeted hits by street gangs or bikers that went wrong? It was beyond coincidence that they’d miss four targets but kill four innocent victims. Yet it was strange that these four seemingly unconnected people could all be targets of a gang. “What if we have a shooter on the loose and he’s killing people at random, just because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  Griffin nodded. “That would be the worst kind of scenario—a nightmare.”

  “If that’s the case, it will be difficult to solve unless we find he’s made a mistake.”

  Griffin swung his legs off the desk and rubbed his face with his palm. “Even worse is we don’t find any clues, get any leads. In that case, we might need him to make a mistake at another shooting.”

  Shit, this isn’t over.

  Griffin returned to overseeing the set-up in the gym. Brad stayed in their new office, organizing the information they’d collected. He had an eerie feeling he was being watched. He glanced at the door—no one there. Then he glanced up. Standing at the glass overlooking the racquetball court were a half-dozen people, drinking coffee and watching. A few waved. I’m in a freaking zoo.

  He called dispatch and asked them to bring him a city map. He used one wall to post what little information they had from each crime scene. He taped the name of each victim to the wall, then under each name added photos of the victims prior to the shooting—from driver’s licenses, the victim’s pictures at the scene, photos of the scene, witness interview statements, and what little forensic evidence had been analyzed.

  He stood back and scrutinized the wall. He grabbed a pen and wrote a list of unanswered questions and a task list.

  All four scenes had witnesses, but no one saw any of the shootings. No one saw a shooter. In most cases, a shot was heard, but they believed it to be a backfire or a tire blowing. No one could say what direction the sound came from. The few places that had security cameras showed the moment of the impact, but all faced toward the victim, not away. Not a single scrap of evidence was left to identify the shooter or his vehicle. The best lead so far was the white van, and that was sketchy.

  Brad sat at his desk and penned his list.

  Questions

  Victims targeted? Or victims random?

  Then who was the actual target?

  Significance of locations?

  Gang/Biker related?

  What is the underlying issue?

  Isolated to Calgary? Other cities experiencing this?

  One shooter?

  Different shooters per location?

  Experienced sniper?

  Experienced hunter?

  The gun?

  Scope?

  Vehicle: White Van?

  Brad sat back and stared at the questions. The shootings appeared random, not related to gangs. No one was claiming credit for the killings yet, so not political.

  The shooter was experienced, but was that military history or an expert hunter?

  Until they got ballistics, which should be soon, it would be a wild-assed guess as to the caliber of ammunition and the make of the gun.

  Brad’s radio was continuous chatter from cops stopping white vans, running license plate numbers and driver’s licenses. The focused stops of white vans were leading to a few arrests for outstanding warrants and drug possession when the vans were searched. The danger was Archer had decided to have one officer in each cruiser, instead of the usual two. It increased the visibility of police to double the number of cops on the street. But it also put those officers in danger at each traffic stop. They were alone without the usual backup of a partner. Although it appeared the cops were doing an excellent job of backing each other up when they heard about a traffic stop. Brad touched wood. Hopefully, backup didn’t arrive too late.

  There was a knock at the door. One of the 911 call takers came in. “I’ve got your map.”

 
Brad grabbed the map. “Thanks. This will be handy.”

  He taped the map to the wall, then marked the site of each shooting and the time. It appeared the shooter could quickly get to each location, even in rush hour traffic.

  The City of Calgary, Alberta, was home to 580,000 citizens spread out over 250 square miles. The city itself was divided up into the four major quadrants of north, south, east and west, along with the downtown core at the city center. The first shooting took place on Ninth Avenue, west of the city center. The second shooting took place less than a mile south on Seventeenth Avenue in the southwest. Approximately four minutes driving in rush-hour traffic. The third, at Twelfth Avenue and Macleod Trail in the southeast, again four minutes from the second location and one minute from the downtown core. And the fourth shooting on Sixteenth Avenue and Centre Street northwest, occurred fifty minutes after the third, but was merely a ten-minute drive from the third shooting. Why the break in time? All were clustered around the perimeter of the city core.

  Staring at the map was making him dizzy. Time to change his thinking. He went back to his desk and picked up the pen.

  What do we know:

  Four shootings

  Two women

  Two men

  All killed

  Within two-and-a-half hours

  Shot from distance 100–200 yards

  Killed with one shot

  Three shots accurate, one not, but still did the job. (Double-check this one. Is it the ricochet? A different shooter or did the shooter mess up?)

  Locations? 1 Dealership, 2 gas stations and 1 bus bench, but a gas station immediately behind

  Were gas stations the target? Why?

  His eyes roamed from one list back to the other. Killed with one shot from a distance means a high-powered rifle. That means a high-powered bullet. Which meant the ballistic vests cops and paramedics wore would not stop the bullet. The vests would just be another piece of clothing the paramedics had to remove at the scene, or worse, at the morgue. There had been nothing to suggest cops might be victims. But nothing to rule them out either.

  He set down the pen, exhaled a deep breath, and stared at the map.

  “Hey, buddy,” a voice boomed. “Some of us are trying to solve the murders.”

  Brad’s head swung, and the chair tipped back. He grabbed the desk to keep from falling. “Most people knock.”

  “Most cops don’t sleep in the middle of four homicides,” Sturgeon said.

  Brad snorted. “Yeah, right. I’m going dizzy staring at this map trying to figure out a pattern.”

  “You don’t need the map to appear dizzy. Anyway, I thought we needed some help with ballistics and guns, so I brought Ames with me.”

  Randy Ames stepped into the room. Brad jumped to his feet and held out his hand. “Damn good to see you, buddy.”

  Ames had been a sniper on Brad’s TSU team three years ago during the biker war. He was an expert marksman with time in Vietnam. There wasn’t anything he didn’t know about snipers and high-powered rifles.

  “I hope you two have something good to tell me.”

  “Nothing concrete yet,” Sturgeon said. “But Ames collected bullet fragments from all four shootings—from the emergency department and the morgue.”

  “The first part won’t be news to you,” Ames said. “The shooter used a high-powered rifle with a high-velocity bullet, a long rifle or assault rifle, like the AR15. Preliminary examination shows bullet fragments are a .223 caliber round. It’s gonna take some time for a full ballistics match, but I’m confident the round is .223. The wounds are similar with all victims. It’s not a stretch to say the bullets recovered to this point likely came from the same rifle.”

  Brad nodded. “And the ballistic vest the street cops wear won’t stop a .223.”

  “Might not even slow it down.” Ames headed to the door. “I’m going to do the full ballistic assessment.”

  “Let me know as soon as you find anything.”

  “The tire tracks aren’t any help. Too many on top of the other.” Sturgeon headed to the door, then stopped. “I’ll see what my teams have gathered from the crime scenes.”

  Brad went back to his lists, then his brain spun off in another direction. Was it crazy to think just one of these victims was the target? That the sniper killed four to disguise the one true target? To confuse us? One of the women? A nasty divorce? Who was the intended victim then? He remembered an Agatha Christie novel along these lines. His subconscious was messing with him.

  Still, something to follow up. A business deal gone wrong? Brad made a note to check the victims for businesses and any in trouble.

  Brad glanced at his watch—almost 2:00 p.m.—four hours since the last shooting. Was it too early to relax? Maybe it was a brief spree of killings.

  Perhaps the idea that he’d killed four to cover up the actual target wasn’t so far-fetched. Unless they found a link between the victims, this theory was as good as any. His gut told him it was too early to relax—his brain said the immediate threat was over. Focus on solving the murders.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Deputy Chief Archer ordered the afternoon shift which normally started at 3:00 p.m., to be at work at 2:00 p.m. So, when Brad and Briscoe arrived at the briefing room, close to seventy-five officers were crammed together. Already the odors of many competing colognes and sweat permeated the air. They pushed their way to the front of the room. Conversations buzzed.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” Briscoe said.

  The discussions continued.

  “Quiet.” Briscoe paused as he waited for the conversation to die down. “I’ll make this quick. The shootings took place this morning over two-and-a-half hours. There have been no shootings since 9:58. The shooter may have accomplished what he’d planned to do. Other than the possibility the suspect or suspects were driving a white cargo van or a white box van, we don’t have a lot to go on. A few things you need to know. There will be one officer in each cruiser. That’s to maximize coverage.”

  A hand went up.

  “Yes,” Briscoe said. “I still expect you to stop white vans. Whenever possible, back up each other. The van is our best lead, so be cautious, but we have to stop every van. Second—I’m sure you’ve figured this out—our ballistic vests won’t stop high-powered rifle bullets, which we suspect the shooter is using.”

  The officer lowered his hand.

  “Last,” Briscoe continued, “you see anything suspicious, get backup. Do not approach suspects on your own. Contact dispatch, they’ll let Coulter know, and TSU will be dispatched to your location. Any questions?”

  The cops murmured and glanced at each other, but no questions came.

  One cop tentatively raised a hand. “How confident are you the shooter is done?”

  Briscoe shook his head. “I wish I could say for sure he’s stopped—I can’t. Nothing is telling us that this is over. You should operate under the assumption we will hear from the shooter. Every hour there’s not a shooting, provides optimism the worst is behind us. But we must stay prepared and vigilant in case the shooter is still active. I need you on the streets. Stay safe and go home tonight. Dismissed.”

  Chapter Twenty

  After the briefing, Brad returned to his office and started reading the dozens of witness statements detectives had collected. None had provided promising leads.

  Griffin burst into the office. “We have our first lead.”

  Brad’s head jerked up. “What?”

  “A lady phoned dispatch. She’s convinced her ex-husband, Garth Simpson, is the shooter.”

  Brad’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe she just hates the guy. This is her way to get revenge.”

  “That’s what I thought at first. But listen to this. He’s a violent guy with a lengthy record of brutal assaults. He owns a bunch of firearms, including rifles. He wants to be a survivalist and is always talking about how the government is screwing him, and it’s giant companies like the oil giants that are making money
at the expense of the little guy. Now he’s missing.”

  “If he’s her ex, how does she know he’s missing?”

  “Because she rents the basement to him. She hasn’t seen him for at least three days. He said someday he’d go ballistic and make things right.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Better yet, he owns a white van.”

  Brad perked up. “We need to check him out if for no other reason than he sounds like a shithead.”

  Griffin waved a paper in the air. “Got his address.”

  Brad parked in front of the address in an older neighborhood. Most of the homes on this block had been neglected for years—decades, probably. The paint was dull and cracked, and the shingles were curled toward the sky. They headed up the uneven sidewalk, ducked under the hanging tree branches and up the steps. A welcome mat lay in front of the screen door. The lettering was faded, the worn corners curled. It was anything but welcoming. Brad stepped to the side as Griffin knocked.

  The inside door opened and a lady, maybe late fifties but possibly as old as seventy, peered out the screen. “You the cops?”

  “Mrs. Simpson?” Griffin held out his badge. “Can we come in?”

  She opened the screen door and nodded toward the inside of the house. She followed them and pointed to the well-worn couch with knitted covers. Griffin sank deep into the couch. Brad stood. Mrs. Simpson sat in an armchair with knitting needles and yarn piled beside.

  The room was clean and not cluttered. A stark contrast to the outside. Pictures lined the mantel of the electric fireplace, and several landscape prints were hung on the walls. A hallway to the left likely led to a bathroom and bedrooms. He figured the kitchen was to the back of the house.