13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  “Wow. At least we agree on one thing.”

  “Only one thing?”

  “Yup,” Brad said. “You met Lobo.”

  “That’s right, you’re a dog person.”

  “Of course.”

  Sadie shook her head. “German shepherd, too. You are one hundred percent cop.”

  The waitress set the breakfast special in front of Sadie and refilled their coffees.

  “You’d better leave her a huge tip,” Brad said.

  “Aren’t you buying?”

  “Sure. Then the next one is on you and I will be hungry.”

  “Chivalry is dead.”

  “Women’s lib and all that stuff.”

  “You’re finished your special. You talk, I’ll eat.” Sadie grabbed half the BLT.

  Brad sat back and stared at Sadie.

  She glanced up. “What?”

  “I’m trying to figure out your angle.”

  “No angle.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I was hungry.”

  “Nah, that’s not it. You’re waiting for me to blurt out something spectacular you can lead with on the news tonight.”

  “Is it that easy? That you’d blurt out something?” She took a bite of her BLT. “I doubt that. Do you have something spectacular?”

  “Nice try.”

  She set the sandwich down. “Here’s what I know. You grew up in Calgary in the Bowness neighborhood. You were a high school football jock, then university football superstar. You became a cop and you’re first-rate.” She ate a couple of French fries.

  “That’s it. You’ve got it nailed.”

  “But you also have a law degree.”

  Brad shrugged. “I had to take courses when I was in university. Basket weaving and finger painting were full.”

  “Come on, there’s more than that.”

  “True.”

  “You took economics and are a savvy investor.”

  “Change the topic.”

  “Okay. What do you think of the RCMP showing up today with a profile? Is that even a thing?”

  “I love the RCMP, they are truly Canada’s police force. I’m sure they will be of immense help in this investigation.”

  Sadie laughed. “You said that with a straight face.”

  “I meant every word.”

  “Seriously?”

  “As far as our discussion goes, yes, seriously.”

  “You’re not a lot of fun.”

  “Not anymore.” He slid out of the booth. “Have a grand day, Sadie. Next meal is on you.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  After his late brunch, Brad stopped in the gym and flipped through the latest stack of tips—the most promising. If these are the best leads, we’re screwed. If you owned a gun, and someone knew about it, you were reported. Hell, this is Alberta, firearms are in their genes.

  Brad tossed a stack of tips into an overflowing box on the floor. Ames had drawn a blank in his tour of the gun shops. No city in Canada had experienced shootings like this. This was new, and they were fumbling their way through this mess. Archer said he’d contact some chiefs he knew in United States departments. A few promising leads went nowhere, and they quickly removed each suspect from the list.

  If you owned a white truck of any kind, you’d likely parked it in your garage. You’d probably been stopped many times and even having the truck in your driveway meant someone would call the tip line. Looking for the white van was a waste of time. If the sniper had been driving a white van, he’d be stupid to keep using it with all the publicity.

  Checking for vehicles stolen in the past five days might be an excellent idea.

  He wandered over to the suspect list on the wall. The double doors to the gym burst open, like saloon doors. Brad wasn’t sure what it was about those doors that encouraged people to throw them open. Four guys in cheap suits strode into the gym. The guy in the lead surveyed the room. Brad knew him, but from … ah shit. Stinson.

  They’d crossed paths during the search for Jeter Wolfe. To say they didn’t get along was mild. A couple of times, they’d come close to blows.

  Thousands of Mounties in the country and this is the guy they send.

  Stinson’s eyes found Brad, and a sly grin crossed his face. He nodded to the other three members of his group and they headed over.

  “Coulter.”

  Brad stepped closer. “Stinson.”

  “Looks like we’re working together again.”

  “Looks like you’re here to provide consultation.”

  Stinson smirked. “Consult. Partner. Same thing.”

  “I see you two have picked up where you left off.” Archer glared at Brad, then Stinson. “Let me be clear. Shove your dicks back in your pants and lose the attitude. Until told otherwise”—he glanced at Brad—“I’m in charge of this investigation. You two report to me. We have more significant problems than you two stirring up ancient rivalries. Follow me.” Archer led them up to his second-floor office.

  Brad closed the door behind him and took a seat at the conference table across from Stinson. He sighed. Archer was right. This was no time for personal vendettas. He may dislike Stinson, but Calgary had a sniper terrorizing the city. They had the same priorities.

  “All right, Stinson,” Archer said. “What do you have for us?”

  Stinson opened a file folder and passed out a report. “This is the profile we’ve created for the sniper. I’ve talked to the FBI Behavioral Science Unit. They reviewed what we wrote and added their own information.”

  “How did you do a profile?” Brad asked. “You just arrived.”

  Stinson shrugged. “Chief Archer has been cooperative, so we know what you know. The press has their own sources, so they add to the information.”

  “What if we’ve interpreted the info wrong?” Brad asked. “What if we’re on the wrong track?”

  “That’s where we come in,” Stinson said. “With help from the FBI, we can weed out the baseless information, but also add to the profile. They’ve got data on hundreds of killers. Their profiles are accurate. We’re trying to share information.”

  “There are a few other things you could help us with,” Brad said.

  “Name it,” Stinson said.

  “We’ve checked the local gun stores for anyone who bought a .223 rifle in the past six months. We need to know is how many are there in Alberta.”

  “Done,” Stinson said. “What else?”

  “It would be worthwhile to know if something like this has happened anywhere else in Canada or the US. And if there have been any known snipers released from jail lately, or on a federal watch list.”

  “No problem.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Brad leaned against the back wall of the briefing room. As crowded as it had been earlier in the week, there were at least another thirty people crammed in.

  Right on the dot of 3:00 p.m., Stinson stepped up to the microphone. “Good afternoon. I’m Sergeant Stinson of the RCMP. I’m here to provide a profile on the sniper. This information is gleaned from the information about the patterns of the shootings and what the sniper may have done in his past, providing him with the skills to accomplish what he has. I’ve also consulted the FBI, who has a unit dedicated to the analysis of serial killers—the agents at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Together we have come up with a profile. My partners are handing out our analysis. While they do that, I’ll share our information.”

  Stinson opened a file folder.

  “The sniper is a male,” Stinson read, “has a highly aggressive personality, and is control-oriented, controlling and coercive. It is likely he has always been a bully and took pleasure in humiliating others. He views the display or even the idea of emotions as a sign of weakness. He does not like to be told what to do, is hypersensitive to negative feedback, and will carry a grudge until he has the upper hand.”

  Sounds like half the guys I’ve arrested.

  “As mentioned, he is coercive and will become aggressive to othe
rs who get in his way. Others may do what he says out of fear. He is closed-minded and set in his ways. He does not like change and has extreme personal beliefs, which he will defend.”

  Set in his ways? Damn, could be me.

  “He may be socially intolerant and inherently racist. An affiliation with an extremist group of white males is likely.”

  Brad sighed. The profile read like an horoscope for criminals.

  “He is mean-spirited and has a callous disregard for others. He is particularly resentful of those in power, such as politicians, CEOs, and bank presidents. There is no doubt he has extensive experience with firearms, likely the military. In the military, it is likely he was in trouble a lot and possibly received a dishonorable discharge. It is not unreasonable to believe the sniper is an American, probably a Vietnam Vet who was disgruntled with the United States and moved here, to find he’s again being persecuted. He grows stronger with each killing and has a powerful urge to kill that will not be extinguished.”

  Huh. Vietnam veteran. Brad considered this.

  “If anyone knows someone who fits this profile, do not approach him. Do not ask probing questions. Call the hotline and leave the investigation to us. I will take questions. You, sir.”

  “Angus Ferguson, CTV News. You refer to the sniper as he. Could there be more than one sniper? Sniper teams? With the first four shootings occurring over two-and-a-half hours, maybe two units or more?”

  “Good questions, Mr. Ferguson. We believe the shootings are the work of a single individual without a partner. And certainly, one man, not multiple teams.” Stinson held up his hand. “Thank you for your cooperation today. I’ll stay around for any of you who have additional questions.”

  After the RCMP press conference, Brad and Griffin headed back to the zoo.

  “We need to talk about their profile,” Griffin said.

  Brad opened a drawer in his desk and rummaged around.

  “What are you doing?” Griffin asked.

  “I can’t find my Magic 8 Ball, tarot cards or Ouija board.”

  Griffin chuckled. “Sometimes you kill me.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You don’t think they had some excellent ideas?”

  Brad’s eyes widened. “You do? Let’s go through the RCMP’s profile.” At each point, he held up a finger. “One, he’s male—no shit. Two, he’s aggressive—obviously. Three, controlling—son of a bitch. Four, bullies and humiliates people—heaven help us. Five, hypersensitive to negative feedback—clearly.”

  Griffin pulled out his handcuffs. “You don’t have to say anything. In fact, I’m encouraging that. I’m arresting you, Brad Coulter.”

  “Don’t be a smartass, it doesn’t look good on you.”

  “Ah, but it fits you like a tailored Italian suit.”

  Brad held up his index finger on his left hand. “Five, extensive experience with firearms—knock me over with a feather. Six, military, dishonorable discharge, Vietnam—did Einstein work with them?”

  “Excellent points. I’ll arrest Ames, Steele, and Zerr. Maybe Sergeant Jackson, too.”

  “Seriously. How does this help?”

  “You forgot racist and hangs out with white guys.”

  Brad threw his arms up in the air. “I give up.” He leaned his head against the wall and hit his forehead on the concrete.

  Griffin headed over and placed an arm around Brad’s shoulder. “Your brain is mush, buddy. We’re both beyond exhausted. If my wife asked me if I wanted rice or potatoes, I’d stare blankly at her. I have no brain power left. Let’s get out of here.”

  Brad nodded. “I’ll go home for dinner. I need to eat something other than takeout breakfast sandwiches, subs, and burgers. But I’ll be back later.”

  “Stay home. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Just after 8:00 p.m., the couple stepped out of the Ponderosa Steakhouse. Rain mixed with snow whipped around them. They wrapped their coats tight as they hustled across the parking lot to their car. They bent forward as the wind blew the sleet toward them like icy pellets. She waited as her husband pulled keys out of his pocket to unlock the passenger door. She heard a boom and glanced to the sky, thinking it was thunder. When she glanced back, her husband stumbled, took three steps, then fell onto his face.

  Her first thought was he’d had a heart attack. She knelt next to him and rolled him onto his back. In the light from the overhead streetlight, she saw his shirt was torn and blood flowed from his stomach. Rain flowed over his exposed intestines.

  She screamed.

  At home that night, Brad and Lobo wandered around the farm. He still couldn’t believe anyone would shoot a child. What mental illness or hatred could be so evil a child became a target? Brad’s one wish was that he’d be the one to confront the killer. The one who could apply street justice. Now, instead of coming home to relax, his jaw clenched until it hurt, and a heavy weight pressed down on his neck and shoulders. He glanced at the old truck. He couldn’t get the timing set. He might need to ask Zerr for help getting it going. They headed back to the house.

  Brad reheated a roast dinner Annie had left. Lobo cleaned his bowl in a matter of seconds, then sat by the table, hoping against hope today would be the day Brad fed him dinner scraps. It hadn’t happened in six years, but today might be the day. Lobo was ever hopeful.

  Brad tried to relax. The victims and autopsies fought for his attention. He’d flipped through the TV channels. Tried to read a novel. He’d even tried to nap. Nothing worked.

  At eight he headed back to work with Lobo snoozing in the back of the car. Brad didn’t have the heart to leave him home alone. Who knew when Brad would be home again? Annie was great about caring for Lobo when Brad was stuck at work, but Brad missed hanging out with him. He felt safe with Lobo at his side.

  Besides, it was raining, and if it became a thunderstorm, the big baby would hide out in the barn. Lobo had no problem with gunshots, flashbangs, or explosions. But thunder …

  The rain turned to sleet the closer he got to downtown. He followed the curve onto Ninth Avenue when the call came in. “Man down. Ponderosa Steakhouse. 720 Seventeenth Avenue SW. EMS on the way. The caller says man is in the parking lot. His wife is screaming he’s been shot.”

  Lobo’s head appeared over the front seat when Brad activated the siren. Red-and-blue lights reflected off the wet pavement. The radio was alive with units responding. The car fishtailed as Brad drove south on Eleventh Street. As he headed west on Seventeenth Avenue, several cruisers raced past ahead of him. He followed them. Four blocks later, they stopped on the street next to the parking lot. As Brad slid out of the car, an ambulance pulled in.

  Brad cracked a back window. “Wait here.” Lobo slipped his snout out the window and licked at the sleet.

  He grabbed his raincoat off the passenger seat and slipped it on as he jogged to a handful of people by a car. The paramedics rushed over from the other direction.

  Brad surveyed the scene. “There’s few people here.”

  “Happening a lot,” a cop said. “There are seldom bystanders when we arrive. People are scared and don’t want to be exposed. There are a few potential witnesses in the restaurant.”

  “Go to the restaurant and don’t let anyone leave,” Brad said. “We need statements from them. Don’t let them talk about what they saw.”

  Brad knelt next to the paramedics. Jill Cook was placing saline-soaked pads over the intestines. Sharma and two cops slid the stretcher beside the patient. Once on the stretcher, they rushed the victim to the ambulance.

  As Brad watched the stretcher roll away, a hand touched his shoulder.

  “Did you secure the witnesses?” Griffin asked.

  “They’re in the restaurant.”

  Griffin glanced at the ambulance. “How is he?”

  “Not dead,” Brad said. “But unconscious. This one is a gut shot. Either our shooter has lost his skill, or he is purposely making people suffer. Maybe our victim m
oved at the last second or the shooter was disrupted as he shot.”

  Griffin nodded. “You need to go with him. If he regains consciousness, even for a minute, you need to be there. I’ll handle the scene.”

  “Lobo is in my car.”

  “No problem. Leave me your keys.”

  Brad opened the side door of the ambulance and stepped in.

  “What are you doing?” Jill asked.

  “I’m riding with you.”

  She placed a pad over the patient’s stomach, then pulled a blanket over him. “Fine, but don’t get in my way.”

  Sharma glanced back from the driver’s seat. “Ready to go. Jill?”

  “Yup. Fast and easy.”

  Sharma winked at Brad. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And stop that shit,” Jill said.

  “Anything I can do?” Brad asked.

  Jill peered over her shoulder, then hung an IV bag on a pole. “You a paramedic and a detective?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then, I guess not.” Jill attached an IV line to the needle she’d just inserted.

  “You want me to squeeze the bag, get the fluid running faster?”

  Jill slid into the jump seat at the patient’s head. “Yeah, I guess that would be okay.” She adjusted the oxygen mask that had slipped off the patient’s face.

  Brad grabbed the IV bag and began squeezing. He glanced at the cardiac monitor. “His heart is racing. About one hundred and thirty. Is his blood pressure low?”

  Jill shook her head. “Yes, Dr. Coulter. It’s low and sinking fast. Keep the pressure on that bag. You learn that from doctor shows on TV?”

  “Paramedic show. Emergency!”

  “Seems like you were paying attention.” She leaned toward the front of the ambulance. “Let the Holy Cross Hospital know his blood pressure is crashing. He must have some significant internal bleeding. We’re pouring the fluid to him, but it isn’t helping.”

  Sharma reached for the mic, and over the whine of the siren, Brad heard Sharma repeat Jill’s words to the hospital.