13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  Griffin pulled out a notebook and pen. “Tell us why you called?”

  “Like I told the lady on the phone, my ex, Garth, is violent and has a record. Some fierce assaults. He thinks he’s a survivalist. He hates the government and especially hates the oil companies.”

  “What’s his problem with oil companies?”

  “He believes the oil giants are making money at the expense of the little guy.”

  “Did he work for an oil company?”

  Mrs. Simpson nodded. “Years ago, but he got fired.”

  “Why?”

  “He was drunk and told the boss off,” she said. “Then he couldn’t get a job anywhere.”

  “You told the officer on the phone that your ex is missing,” Brad said.

  Mrs. Simpson shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Well, not missing, he’s just not here.”

  “What does that mean?” Brad asked.

  “He goes on drinking binges, two, three, four days at a time.”

  “Does he have a favorite establishment?”

  “What?”

  “Bar,” Griffin said. “What is his favorite bar?”

  “Oh. Usually the Queens Hotel.”

  “Good to know,” Brad said. “You mentioned guns?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yeah. He’s got lots of guns.”

  Brad glanced around the room. “Where are they?”

  “In the basement. Go ahead and search. I never go down.”

  “Thank you.” Griffin closed his notebook.

  They headed down the rickety stairs to the basement.

  Brad glanced around the unfinished room as he slid on examination gloves. A bed sat in the far corner, covers in a tangled mess, and clothes littered the floor.

  “I’d feel better if I was in a full contamination suit.” He kicked a few pizza boxes aside, then stumbled on an empty two-liter soda bottle. “I’m gonna twist an ankle. Some of this shit is knee-deep.”

  “Stop whining. If this is the guy, and we bust this case, it will be worth it.”

  “Not if we die of a disease.” Brad pushed his way to a cabinet attached to a wall. A padlock held the doors closed. Like many such setups, the lock was sturdy, but the metal closures were held in place by four tiny screws. He pulled out his knife, wedged the blade under the metal and pried. After several attempts, the screws popped out. He pulled the door open and whistled. “Oh, my.”

  Griffin fought the surging garbage and headed to Brad. The cabinet stored guns and ammunition. Four long-guns were placed vertically in a homemade stand—a 12-gauge shotgun, a .22, a .308 and a Remington 700. On shelves beside the guns were boxes of ammunition for all four rifles, including .223 ammunition for the Remington 700. The boxes were three deep, four high, and six wide—seventy-two boxes on one shelf alone.

  Brad opened the first of three drawers to find a half-dozen revolvers and ammunition. A mix of .38, .357 and .22.

  The second drawer contained four pistols and ammunition.

  The last drawer held camouflage clothing.

  “Not enough to start a war,” Brad said. “But enough to do a bunch of damage.”

  Griffin nodded. “We need to back out of here and call the Crime Scene Unit. Have them analyze the long-guns first.”

  “More work for Sturgeon,” Brad said. “This might be a solid lead. He’s got four crime scenes and add this one to process.”

  “We’ll take the guns and a box of each type of ammunition to Ames. We’ll get a cruiser here to seal the basement until Sturgeon has people to come back and do a thorough search.”

  “I’ve got Ames working on ballistics already. I’ll tell him we’re coming in with some guns.”

  They loaded the guns and ammunition into the trunk.

  Brad swung the car away from the curb. “I gotta eat.”

  “Sure,” Griffin said. “Peters’ Drive-In is on the way back to headquarters. You call Ames and get a BOLO out on Garth Simpson. I’ll get burgers and Cokes.”

  Brad was hanging up the payphone outside the 7-Eleven when Griffin sauntered over to the car. Brad glanced across the street to where the last shooting had occurred. CSU was still on scene, and they still blocked Sixteenth Avenue to traffic, making rush hour a complete mess with frequent honking.

  Griffin passed Brad a burger and Coke and set a large bag of fries between them. “Got a paper, too.”

  “Fine dining.” Brad grabbed a handful of fries and stuffed them into his mouth.

  “Nothing but the best.”

  They wolfed down their meals in silence as cops and paramedics had learned to do. Unfortunately, that spilled over into personal life. Brad finished his burger, picked up the paper and flung it open.

  The headline read: Troubled Cop Investigating Shootings

  Below the headline was a photo of Brad sitting alone on the picnic table today next to a picture of his house surrounded by emergency vehicles the night Maggie was murdered. Brad scrubbed one hand down his face and swore.

  “That’s a shitty picture of you.”

  “Thanks. Ferguson is a piece of work.”

  Brad skimmed through the article. “He’s rewritten the story of the night Maggie died and questions my ability to be on this case.” Brad read some more. “Now he’s done it.”

  “What?”

  “He’s got a second article—about the white van. In his version, from a high-level source in the police: ‘Police think the shooter is a disgruntled tradesperson driving a white van. The public should be cautious of any tradespeople in their area. Do not open your doors and call the police immediately.’” Brad tossed the newspaper in the back seat.

  “Shit. 911 is going to light up.”

  Brad’s and Griffin’s pagers buzzed at the same time. Brad glanced at the display. “Shit. Simpson was in the drunk tank from late Sunday night until one this afternoon. No way he did the shooting.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was close to midnight Monday night by the time he headed home. The day rolled through his mind like a movie on fast forward. He knew he’d have to slow things down, but not tonight. Then the film stopped on the last shooting and the feeling he had that he was being watched—that the shooter was still there. Was he there for another shot? Or to watch how the cops responded to the shootings. Then his stomach rolled. Maybe the shooter was watching the paramedics. He shook his head. Now his mind was creating shit. There was no reason to think cops or paramedics were at risk. Right?

  He’d been referring to this guy as the shooter and not a sniper. Why? There was nothing to point to gang executions, drive-by shooting, or a renewal of the biker war. The difference was a matter of opinion than definition. Add in the high-powered rifle with a scope and high-power bullets, and you had a sniper.

  He sped out of the city toward his farm. Brad glanced at the same spot where his partner was shot four years earlier. That empty feeling never went away. Once past that location, he relaxed. It was like there was a line between stress and peace.

  Four miles farther, he exited to the right and looped back toward the city. He swung onto the dirt lane. The familiar Honda was parked in front of the house. A few lights flickered inside.

  He slid out of the car and headed to the house. The screen door swung open and Lobo bounded toward him, barking excitedly. Brad knelt and Lobo smothered him with wet kisses. He roughed up Lobo’s head and neck, then stepped into the house, Lobo at his side.

  Annie met them at the door.

  “Thanks for checking on Lobo.” Brad hugged Annie.

  “I saw the action on TV and read the newspaper. I figured you’d be late coming home.”

  “Thanks for staying with him, Annie. That’s sweet of you. He’s fine outside. He doesn’t wander far, and he’ll hunt if he needs food.”

  “Eeew. That’s gross.”

  Brad shrugged. “He’s made friends with a feral cat. I think they hunt together.”

  “That’s still disgusting. I made some stew and cornmeal. You must be starving.”r />
  “I am. I had a burger with Griffin about six.”

  “That sounds healthy.”

  “Not a lot of options when you’re on the run. It smells great. Let me wash up and change. Then I’ll eat.”

  When Brad came back to the kitchen in a torn University of Calgary Dinos T-shirt and shorts, dinner was on the table.

  He buttered a piece of cornbread and dug into the stew. “This is awesome.” He sprayed cornbread crumbs as he spoke.

  “Manners. You’d think you hadn’t eaten for days.”

  “Seems like it.” He scooped up a spoonful.

  “You’ve forgotten about the roast beef meal last night?”

  “That was a spectacular meal.”

  Annie handed him a napkin, and he wiped his mouth.

  “Seems like days ago.” He held a piece of cornbread close to his mouth. “You’re not my mother, you know.”

  Annie put her hands to her face in mock surprise. “Really?”

  “Funny. Why don’t you tell me about you and Charlie while I eat?”

  “Aren’t you going to read me my rights first, Detective?” She held her hands out for handcuffs.

  “It’s not an interrogation. I’m curious.”

  Annie laughed. “When it comes to me and guys, you’re a big brother protecting his little sister. There’s no, ‘just curious’ about it.”

  “I’m not that unscrupulous.”

  “Hah.”

  “So?” He scooped a large portion of stew into his mouth, swallowed, then took a long drink of milk.

  Annie shrugged. “When Charlie’s girlfriend, Tina, was … murdered in the spring, and … when Maggie was killed, we had something in common. You were a fucking mess, and—”

  “Language.” He shoveled stew into his mouth, then shoved in a healthy portion of cornbread.

  “You had your own issues. It wasn’t something we could help each other with.”

  Brad frowned. “I wasn’t there for you.”

  “Not then. You and I were both traumatized. Charlie was, too. At first, we talked about you. We were worried about you. Then, I don’t know when it happened, we started talking about how we were doing, how we were feeling. We were there for each other. At some point, it was more than friends, more than confidants.”

  “Okay, stop there.” Brad wiped his lips again. “I don’t need the details. You know I love Charlie. He’d take bullets for either of us. It sounds sappy, but I know that. I’d do anything for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. But I’m glad Charlie was. He’s, um, older than you.”

  “Yes, Brad, he is. Seven years older.”

  “Closer to eight.” Brad slurped some milk. “That’s a lot.”

  “By chronological age, I’m nearly nineteen. But maturity-wise, I’m much older. You know that. How could I not be with what I’ve been through … what we’ve been through?”

  Brad scooped up the last of the gravy with a piece of cornbread and stared at the bowl. “I will think about this. I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

  Annie grabbed his bowl and bread plate. “Don’t think too long or hard about it. It’s not your decision.”

  “I only mean—”

  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I know you’re trying to protect me. Thank you. I’m a woman. You’ve got important things to worry about. Put your brainpower there.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t stay up too late. I’m heading to bed.” She headed down the hall to the spare room she’d made into her own.

  The next morning Brad dressed in a dark-blue summer suit with a dress shirt and loose tie. From his gun safe in his bedroom, he pulled out his Browning Hi-Power and backup gun, a CZ75. He checked both guns and placed them in holsters. The Browning on his left hip and CZ in an ankle holster on his inside right leg. He slid three magazines into the case on his right hip and handcuffs on his belt at his back. A gravity knife into his right pocket and a mini-Maglite into his left. He stepped out of the bedroom and headed to the back door. Lobo blocked his path and held his leash in his mouth.

  “Sorry, boy. No time for a jog today.”

  Lobo continued his stare.

  “No, I can’t take you to work.”

  Lobo didn’t move.

  “Oh, what the hell. Let’s go.” Brad opened the back door and Lobo raced out. Halfway to the car Lobo stopped and marked his territory, then bounded to the open door, and jumped in.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tuesday Day Seven

  Brad sat to the side of the packed briefing room and drank coffee while Briscoe met with the cops coming on duty at 6:00 a.m. Lobo lay at Brad’s feet.

  The conversation in the room was hushed—respectful. Not the loud, enthusiastic conversations of yesterday.

  Briscoe reviewed the four shootings and that while they were still searching for a white van, nothing had turned up during the night. They needed to be alert and watch for any vans or box trucks, not just white ones. They needed to stay high profile, especially at gas stations, grocery stores, and malls. On the good side, there hadn’t been a shooting overnight.

  It was hard to know if saturating the city with marked police vehicles had made a difference. Too soon to celebrate, but just maybe the heavy police presence would keep the killers lying low. Certainly, if they were driving a white van, it was in their best interest to keep it out of sight. With all the publicity, Brad wondered if the lead on the white van was worth the effort. If he was the sniper, he’d have dumped the white van the first time it was mentioned by the press.

  Every minute, every hour, gave them time to sift through the crime scenes, to evaluate tips and to re-interview witnesses. They needed a break, some pieces that fit the puzzle and pointed them in a direction.

  When the briefing cleared, Brad and Lobo headed to the zoo. Sturgeon and Ames were waiting by the door.

  Sturgeon glanced at Lobo but said nothing.

  “Got some information for you,” Ames said.

  “I hope it’s good news.”

  “Depends on your perspective.” Ames passed over a few sheets of paper. “I tested the guns you found yesterday at the suspect’s house. None of them match the fragments we have. The .223 ammunition he has isn’t a match either.”

  “It’s good we can eliminate the guns. We’d already eliminated the suspect. He was in our jail cells.” Brad sipped his coffee.

  “That’s a good alibi.” Ames nodded. “How many people will know what .223 ammunition looks like or what kind of gun is used?”

  “Excellent point,” Brad said. “Let me work on that.”

  “I had my team working all night.” Sturgeon slid a file folder over to Brad. “We believe two of the bullets recovered and fragments from the other two shootings came from the same gun. No cartridge cases were recovered at any of the crime scenes.”

  “We hold back the evidence from the two bullets. Just mention the fragments to the press.” Brad peered at Ames. “Any leads on the gun?”

  “Hard to say.” Ames shrugged. “There are dozens of guns it could be. If it were me, I’d use a Bushmaster with a good scope. It’s extremely accurate, and in the hands of a skilled shooter, deadly.”

  “Military?” Brad asked.

  Ames shook his head. “No way to know. The best I can say is he has killed before. It’s one thing to sight a target or use a scope on an unmoving piece of paper. It is different shooting something, human or animal, that moves. Harder to shoot a human, unless you’ve done it before.”

  “Back to the military angle?” Brad asked.

  “Or he’s killed before. Another city? Province? Country?”

  “But not necessarily military.”

  Ames shook his head. “Nope. Might be a hunter.”

  Brad shoved the ballistics file to the corner of his desk. “That gives us nothing to go on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The press conference was to take place in the alley behind Police Headquarters at 8:00 a.m.. A podium faced about
a dozen chairs already filled with reporters. Others stood at the side.

  Brad stood behind the reporters with Lobo at his side, scanning the crowd. Steele, Zerr, and Ames stood off to the side of the podium. Llewelyn Carew strode to the mic.

  “Good Morning. I am Sergeant Llewelyn Carew, Public Information Officer.”

  The room quieted.

  “There were four murders yesterday morning. Detectives worked through the night evaluating tips. We are following leads on several suspects but have not made an arrest. We have matched bullet fragments from two of the shootings and we can confirm the bullets are .223 and fired from a high-powered rifle. I’ll turn the time over to Randall Ames, one of the Tactical Support Unit snipers.”

  Ames stepped up to the podium with rifles slung over his shoulders. There were a few gasps from the reporters, then cameras clicked in rapid sequence.

  Brad grinned. Show and tell was about to start.

  “Good morning. I, uh, we thought it might be good to show you the type of rifle we are talking about and what kind of ammunition has been used.” He held up a bullet. “This one might be familiar to some of you. This is a .22 bullet, commonly used in hunting gophers.” Ames showed the reporters a .22 rifle.

  He set the rifle aside and held up a longer bullet.

  “This is the .223, the bullet used in the shootings yesterday.” Ames held up two of the rifles he had slung over his shoulders. Zerr and Steele stepped beside Ames and held out rifles. “These are four of dozens of rifles that use the .223 bullet. After the news conference, we will be at our trucks and can show you the types of rifles we are talking about and you can examine the different bullets.” Ames, Steele, and Zerr stepped away from the microphone and headed to their trucks.

  Brad spotted Ferguson at the front of the pack of reporters. Maybe they had a seniority system. His pink shirt didn’t go well with the tartan tie and tweed jacket. Minus ten from the Russian judge.

  Carew stepped back to the microphone. “I would like to clarify a report in the media last night.” Carew tugged at his shirt collar and licked his lips. He shuffled his papers, then glanced briefly at Ferguson. “We are searching for a white van, but we have no information that leads us to believe the driver or shooter is a tradesperson. That was reported in error.”