Take that, Angus Ferguson.
“Using 911 last night to report suspicious persons or white vans overloaded our 911 system and emergency responses were delayed because of the volume of calls.”
Like I said would happen.
“Instead, we have a dedicated Sniper Tip Line we ask the media to circulate, leaving our 911 dispatch to deal with emergencies.”
An invitation for every crank and nutjob in the city to call.
“We want to keep this brief, but I can take a question or two.” Carew surveyed the media. His eyes passed over, then swung back to Sadie Andrus. “Miss, you have a question?”
“Sadie Andrus, CFAC TV. This shooter is a ghost. He appears and shoots, then disappears. The shootings appear random. Witnesses have not seen where the shots have come from, let alone the shooter.”
“Yes, the shooter appears to be a ghost, but we all know there’s no such thing as ghosts. If he hasn’t already, he will make a mistake. When he does, we will be ready to pounce.”
“So, you expect additional shootings?” Andrus asked.
“Uh, no. Not at all. I mean that as we investigate, we may discover the shooter made a mistake—that we will find evidence or a witness leading to his arrest. I believe the sudden burst of shootings has taken its course, and it is unlikely there will be further incidents.”
“Tony King, KL radio. Should citizens change their travel habits? Should they stay home?”
Carew gripped both sides of the podium and leaned toward the reporters. “Don’t let this terror control your lives. Carry on as normal. We have saturated the city with uniformed officers in marked units. The gunman would be wise to stay in hiding.”
No, no, no.
It was one thing to not panic the public, to not let the terror control their lives, but Carew was taunting the shooter.
“Another question?”
“Angus Ferguson, CFCN. If the police tactical unit uses a .223 rifle, are you sure they are all accounted for?”
“I can assure you all police weapons are where they should be.”
Angus fired another question as Carew finished his previous reply. “Should citizens arm themselves? I mean, if they have a gun, at least they can shoot back.”
No one can say where the shots came from. What will they shoot back at?
“This is not a time to arm yourselves. The gunman has not been seen in any of the shootings. Armed citizens pose an increased risk to everyone. Not to mention, it is a criminal code offense with jail time. As I have stated, we have this under control.”
“Will you be asking the RCMP for help?” Ferguson pressed. “If the city police have no leads, perhaps they can help.”
“Uh, there are no plans to, uh, request assistance from outside police enforcement.”
“A follow-up question—”
Carew ignored Ferguson and scanned the gathered reporters. “The tip line phone number is in your information package. We ask that you ensure this number is widely publicized. That is all for today. We will keep you up to date.”
The reporters broke away in a near stampede as they raced to the TSU trucks. Ames, Zerr, and Steele were swamped by reporters asking questions and surrounded by cameramen. One thing was for sure, by tonight, everyone would know about .223 ammunition and rifles.
“Aren’t you going to help with the dog and pony show?”
Lobo growled. Brad spun and faced Sadie. “Those guys have it under control.”
“Because you trained them well?” Sadie smiled.
“Because they’re great tactical cops.”
She glanced at Lobo. His eyes locked on her. “Is he friendly?”
Brad smirked. “Most of the time.”
“Is he yours?”
Brad rubbed Lobo’s ears. “He’s my partner.”
“Partner?”
“Long story.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’d like to hear that sometime.”
Brad nodded toward the TSU trucks. “That doesn’t interest you?”
Sadie shrugged. “My cameraman is there. I’ll do a voice-over later. Do you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Do you miss tactical support? It must have been fun playing war games.” She used her hands to draw guns and shoot with her fingers. “The everyman dream of good guys versus bad guys.”
“It wasn’t like that.” Brad frowned and sighed. “I guess that’s the image we have. We trained hard and worked on any scenario we could think of. We trained to be ready.”
“Still, shooting, blowing up shit, no-holds-barred hide and seek.”
Brad smirked. “There were fun times.”
Sadie pulled out a pad and a pen. “Would you like to comment on Angus Ferguson’s article on you yesterday? Your side of things?”
“Don’t you dare.” Brad cocked his head and glared.
“Worth a try.” She slid the pen and pad into her handbag. “Do you think this will work—showing the guns and ammo?”
“You never turn it off, do you?”
Sadie shrugged. “Sometimes. The guns and ammo is the simple story. I need to dig deeper, find the underlying story.”
Brad shook his head and glanced over at TSU. “Sometimes, the story is just the story. Someone is killing people. Only he knows why. For us to guess is just that, a guess. We won’t know why until we stop him. Even then, his reasons might not make sense to us.”
Sadie pouted. “Are you sure I can’t quote you?”
“Go ahead.” Brad held his hands out and grinned. “But never talk to me again.”
“I’m not sure I’d like that.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Brad and Lobo slipped past the reporters to an unmarked door and took the stairs to the basement. As they headed to the zoo office, Griffin met them. “We have to head to the interview rooms.”
“Why?”
“A guy just came to the front desk. He says he witnessed a shooting.”
“Which one?”
Griffin shrugged. “That’s what we need to find out.”
They took the stairs to the second floor. Brad said, “Did you hear about the tip line?”
“Yeah,” Griffin said. “911 was going crazy after the shooting last night.”
They stopped outside the interview rooms. Lobo lay down beside Brad. “We don’t have the human resources to deal with that volume. Who’s answering the tip line?”
Griffin smirked. “Today they’ve got support staff reassigned. Tomorrow they’re bringing in recruits.”
Brad laughed. “Are you shitting me?”
“Good experience for them.”
“They’ll make every call a priority,” Brad said. “Then who will follow up on the tips?”
Griffin slapped Brad on the back. “I volunteered you.”
Lobo growled.
Brad glanced at Lobo, shook his head, then turned back to Griffin. “Ass. I’m serious.”
Griffin winked. “Archer has reassigned some other detectives to give the tips a priority, then whoever is available will do the follow-up. If it is a solid tip, it’ll be you or me.”
Brad opened the door to an interview room—four bare gray walls, no windows, a table and three chairs. Lobo rushed past and lay in the corner. A man, mid-fifties, maybe older, with graying hair and a five-day stubble of beard, dressed in tattered clothes, sat at the table staring at his hands. When he realized Brad was there, he glanced up. “Are you detectives?”
“Griffin and Coulter,” Griffin said.
Brad and Griffin stepped into the room and grabbed two chairs.
“What’s your name?” Griffin asked.
“Mackenzie Poole. Everyone calls me Mac.”
“Okay, Mac, you have something to tell us?” Griffin asked. Brad leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest as Mac answered, scrutinizing the man’s behavior, mannerisms, and speech patterns.
“Yeah.” Mac’s eyes glanced to Brad, then back to Griffin. “Yesterday I saw the
shooter.”
“Where?”
“On Sixteenth Avenue. By the 7-Eleven and the drive-in.”
Griffin nodded. “Great, tell us what you saw.”
“I was in the alley, scrounging for bottles and cans,” Mac said. “I go down there every day. It’s a good area.”
“And you saw?”
“Right, well, I heard a noise in the bushes. I thought it was a cat, but I was worried it was a dog. I’ve been bitten a lot.” Mac glanced at Lobo and held out his scarred arm. “So, I look for the cat or dog. At first, I don’t see nothin’. But then I realize the guy is in the bushes. I couldn’t see him at first because he’s wearing camouflage and has his face painted black.”
“What did you do?”
“I kept searching for bottles.”
“You didn’t think it was weird a guy in camo and face paint was in the middle of the city?” Griffin asked.
Mac shrugged. “I didn’t. I see lots of weirdos. But then last night I heard the radio stories about the shootings. They said if anyone saw something, they should contact the police. That’s when I remembered what I’d seen.”
Griffin rubbed his chin. “Why didn’t you contact us last night?”
“I live on the street. I ain’t got no phone. I took the bus here this morning.”
“How tall was he?” Griffin asked.
“I’m not sure. He was crouched in the bushes.”
Griffin pointed at Brad. “My partner is over six feet. That tall?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Shorter.”
“Yeah.”
“What did he weigh?” Brad asked.
“That’s hard, too.”
Brad sighed. Like playing twenty questions.
“Skinny, fat?” Griffin asked.
“Not slim like your partner. But not as stocky as you.”
Griffin scowled.
“What about his face?” Brad asked.
The man shrugged. “As I said, he was wearing camo. Had a camo beanie, too.”
“Did you see a gun?”
“No. But about five minutes later, I heard the shot.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t got no watch. Morning. The burger joint wasn’t open yet.”
Brad glanced at Griffin and nodded toward the door.
“We’ll be right back,” Griffin said. “Can I get you anything?”
“Yeah, maybe a sandwich and a Coke.”
“You got it.” Griffin followed Brad to the hall and closed the door. “So?”
Brad shrugged. “There’s just enough there to make sense. But not enough to give us anything to work with.”
“We could go back and check it out.”
“Let’s talk to him again before we chase this. I’ll get him a Coke.”
“And a sandwich.”
Brad strode away.
When they entered the interview room, Brad set a Coke and a bag of chips on the table, then sat across from Mac.
Mac popped the Coke and took a drink, then glanced at Brad. “Sandwich?”
“Too early,” Brad said. “Cafeteria hasn’t made any yet. I hope the chips will do. We’ve got a few additional questions.”
The man guzzled the Coke. “No problem. I want to help.”
“Tell me again about the man in the bushes,” Brad said. “I didn’t take notes. Sorry to make you go through this again. What color was his hair?”
“Yeah, it was black.”
“Facial hair?”
Mac shook his head. “Nope.”
“What do you know about guns?”
“Not much. Shot a .22 as a kid.”
“If you had to guess, what kind of gun?”
The man nodded. “Bigger than a .22.”
“With a scope?”
Mac took a drink. “Yeah, I think so.”
“What color was his camouflage?” Brad asked.
“You know, the usual, spotted green.”
Brad nodded. “And he blended into the bushes?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“We’re gonna check on your sandwich.” Brad stood.
“Hey, I got questions,” Mac said.
Brad stopped at the door. “Fire away.”
“Is there, like, some kind of reward for this information?”
“Yes, there is.” Brad followed Griffin into the hall.
“His story is changing,” Griffin said.
“Sure is,” Brad said. “At first, I thought he was confused. But I was at the alley. The leaves have already fallen. Someone in green camouflage would stand out, not blend in.”
Griffin nodded. “When he asked about the reward, I figured he was playing us. Frickin’ waste of time.”
“Let’s kick him loose with a couple of sandwiches.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Downtown Calgary had a dozen bars within a two-block radius—none of them five stars. And while it sounded fancy, like its Toronto namesake, the York Hotel in Calgary did not serve the elite. At one time, it did, but that was over fifty years ago. As it stood currently, in 1980, little of the glory days remained. The bonus was that if you were thrown out of one bar, you could crawl to the next. The choices appeared endless—the Legion, St. Regis, and the Calgarian. Or across the street to the Queens, the St. Louis, or King Eddy. All of them were close to the homeless shelter where they were staying. Dozens of reporter’s hands shot into the air. Carew waved them off. “I will provide further information as we receive it.
This afternoon Pittman and Hirsch picked the Legion—cleaner and better lit than the others. The walls were decorated with armed forces memorabilia, Second World War pictures, and several displays of medals. Pittman had shown a card at the door and they were ushered in. The clientele was upscale, and it wasn’t quite as loud as the other bars. The dinner crowd had shuffled in. A mix of food odors from the buffet filled the bar. Most patrons had stopped smoking to eat.
In the corner, they drank beer and played pool. Hirsch scratched on the eight ball and hung his head. “How much?”
“Five dollars a game,” Pittman said.
“You know I don’t have that.”
“You’re good for it.” Pittman grabbed his beer and took a swig as he returned to the TV. “Hey, it’s the cops.” He headed to the bar. “Bartender, turn that up.”
Hirsch grabbed his beer and joined Pittman.
Text at the bottom of the screen said this video was from the police press conference that morning. “There were four murders yesterday morning.”
Pittman stared wide eyed at the TV.
“We playin’ or not?” Hirsch asked.
“Fuck off,” Pittman said. “I want to hear this.”
Sergeant Llewelyn Carew said, “Detectives worked through the night evaluating tips. We are following leads on several suspects but have not made an arrest.”
“Ha, no leads,” Pittman said. “Breaks my heart.”
“We have matched bullet fragments from some shootings, and we can confirm the bullets are .223 and fired from a high-powered rifle.”
“How the hell did they do that?” Pittman asked.
Hirsch shook his head. “They’re bluffing. All they have is pieces of bullets.”
“Jeez. The police are doing a show and tell.” Pittman downed the last of his beer.
“They’re desperate,” Hirsch said.
“I can’t watch this. I’m getting another beer. Want one?”
“Yeah, sure.” Hirsch stared at the TV.
A couple of minutes later, Pittman handed Hirsch a beer. “What’d I miss?”
Hirsch grabbed the beer and took a gulp. “He showed .223 ammunition and some rifles. He’s going to let the reporters play with the guns.”
They went back to their pool game and after a few shots each, Hirsch glanced up, slapped Pittman on the chest, and pointed to the TV.
“Who the hell is she?” Pittman blurted.
The camera had moved off Carew to a lady aski
ng a question. “Sadie Andrus, CFAC TV. This shooter is a ghost. He appears and shoots, then disappears. The shootings appear random. Witnesses have not seen where the shots have come from, let alone the shooter.”
“Ha. She says we’re ghosts,” Hirsch said.
“I ain’t no ghost and I’d prove it to her—over and over.” Pittman grabbed his crotch.
“Yes, the shooter appears to be a ghost, but we all know there’s no such thing as ghosts,” Carew replied. “If he hasn’t already, he will make a mistake. When he does, we will be ready to pounce.”
“Like I said, I’d pounce on her.” Pittman grinned at the TV.
“So, you expect more shootings?” Andrus asked.
“Count on it, lady,” Hirsch said.
“Uh, no. Not at all. I mean that as we investigate, we may discover the shooter made a mistake—that we will find evidence or a witness leading to his arrest. I believe the sudden burst of shootings has taken its course, and it is unlikely there will be further incidents.”
Pittman’s beer was halfway to his mouth. “Fuck you!”
“Hey, you guys, knock it off or get out.” The bartender headed out from behind the bar, a baseball bat at this side. “We don’t put up with that shit here. Go to one of the other bars.”
Hirsch and held out his hands. “Sorry, buddy. We disagreed on a shot.”
“Yeah, well, keep it down.” He headed back behind the bar.
Hirsch grabbed Pittman and dragged him away from the TV. Carew droned on behind them. “We posted a reward for information that leads to the arrest and conviction of the sniper,” Carew said. “The reward, raised by the community, is twenty-five-thousand dollars. Information on the sniper should be reported to the tip line, which we set up this morning.”
Pittman shook free from Hirsch’s grasp. “I should turn you in. I could use that money.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The more Pittman drank, the louder he got, attracting the attention of a couple of bouncers. Hirsch had to drag Pittman out of the bar that evening. At their car, Pittman said, “You drive.”
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