13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  “Stop here.” Pittman glanced over his shoulder. “There.” He pointed into the yard where dozens of Transit buses were parked. “Middle of the first row. See the guy smoking outside the door of the bus?”

  “Yeah. I see him.”

  Pittman slapped his thigh. “Oh, how perfect. A bus driver.”

  “I’m not sure,” Hirsch said. “We’re exposed here.”

  “Pull the car ahead another fifteen feet.”

  Hirsch glanced over his shoulder. “I can’t park the car so the back end is facing that guy. I’d be in the middle of the road.”

  “I don’t care. Get out.” Pittman slid out, headed to the back of the car and opened the trunk.

  Hirsch raced around to Pittman. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m shooting from the side of the car, not inside.”

  Hirsch glanced up and down the street. “Someone will see you.”

  “Not if you stand on the driver’s side. Pretend you’re searching the trunk for something.”

  “Pit. This isn’t a safe place. You killed the guy last night. It was an expert shot. Leave it at that. Let this go.”

  “You’re a maggot.” Pittman swung on Hirsch. He pulled his handgun out of his coat pocket. “You want to die here?”

  Hirsch’s hands automatically raised, and he stepped back. “What the hell?”

  “Get your hands down.” Pittman’s dark eyes burned through Hirsch.

  “You’re insane.”

  Pittman’s lips curled. He slid the pistol into his jacket, reached into the trunk and slid the rifle out of its case. He leaned into the trunk, slapped in a magazine and chambered a round. “Any cars or pedestrians?”

  “N-no,” Hirsch said.

  Pittman slid the rifle out of the trunk and swung it toward the buses. He spread his legs and leaned into the gun. The driver fell back against the bus, then the shot sounded. As the driver slid down the side of the bus, two more shots rang out.

  Pittman threw the gun in the trunk. “Let’s go.” He slammed the lid.

  Chapter Fifty

  Amir Sharma and Jill Cook were driving back to their station for 10:00 a.m. brunch with the firefighters after dropping their patient at the Holy Cross Hospital.

  “Medic 2. Man down at the Victoria Park bus barns,” dispatch said.

  Jill grabbed the mic. “Roger, Victoria Park bus barns. Do you have any additional information?”

  “Not a lot,” dispatch said. “Other drivers can see a man in uniform lying beside a bus. They think it might be a heart attack.”

  “Anyone check to see if he’s breathing?”

  “Ah, no Medic 2. The drivers are inside the barns. No one wants to go outside in case it’s the sniper.”

  “Understood.” Jill replaced the mic. “We’re gonna see more of that.”

  The mid-Saturday morning traffic was light. Sharma didn’t use lights or siren but complained non-stop about missing breakfast. The gate to the bus barns was open. As they pulled into the yard, they saw the man on the ground by a bus. He appeared to be the driver.

  Sharma parked between the bus and the driver. Jill jumped out and headed to the man. She carefully rolled him over and saw three bullet wounds. One in his right shoulder, one in his right thigh, and one in the center of his chest.

  Then the driver coughed and spit up blood. Sharma set the paramedic kit by Jill.

  “He’s alive,” Jill said. “Get the stretcher.”

  Jill opened the kit, grabbed handfuls of gauze bandages, and stuffed them into the driver’s shirt.

  Sharma dropped the stretcher beside Jill. “I called for backup, but no one is close.”

  She nodded. “Then onto the stretcher.”

  They rolled the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.

  “I’ll stop the bleeding and start IVs if I have time,” Jill said. “How fast you can drive.”

  “One diesel infusion, coming up.”

  Jill jumped into the back, and as she shut the door, the ambulance accelerated way from the curb.

  She administered oxygen. She stuffed gauze into the shirt, wrapped the wound in the leg and taped gauze near the shoulder. When the ambulance stopped, emergency staff were waiting and helped rush the driver to the trauma room. The staff surrounded the driver. Less than five minutes later the emergency physician held up his hands. “Time of death, 10:25 a.m.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Brad parked outside the emergency department, flashed his badge, and asked the security guard to watch his car. He pushed through the door and headed down the hall to the triage desk.

  Again, he held out his badge. “Detective Coulter. Shooting patient, Trauma 1?”

  The triage nurse shook her head. “Too late, Coulter. He’s dead.”

  “What? I heard he was alive.”

  She shook her head again. “Died on the way here. He was pulseless and not breathing when the paramedics brought him in. Three gunshot wounds. One to his chest.”

  “Three?”

  “Yes. The one to the chest killed him, but the one in his leg hit an artery, so that didn’t help.”

  “Dang. Where are the paramedics?”

  “In the coffee room.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back to get his belongings.”

  Brad headed down the hall, then turned back. “Has his family been notified?”

  “Detectives are on the way to tell his wife.”

  He nodded, headed down the hall and opened the door. Jill was slouched in a chair, pale. Sharma glanced up as Brad entered.

  “Heck of a way to start the day.” Brad sat across from them. “What can you tell me about this one?”

  Jill closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “We got it as a ‘man down’ beside a bus,” Sharma said. “On a Saturday morning that can be anything from someone sleeping off the party from the night before, a drug overdose, or maybe a cardiac arrest. When we arrived, no one was near the guy. The bus barn door was open, and a group of drivers were watching us. That was weird, but we drove over to the bus. That’s when we realized he’d been shot. There wasn’t time for backup, so we grabbed him and raced here. But he was dead when we got here.”

  Brad pursed his lips and shook his head. “Shit.”

  “Are you going to the scene?” Sharma asked.

  “No. Griffin is heading there. I’ll need a statement from you two.”

  Jill opened her eyes and nodded. “He was just lying there. No one helped him. They watched him die.”

  “People are scared,” Sharma said.

  “I’m scared,” Brad replied. “Being scared is a reasonable response.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  By early afternoon Griffin and Brad were back in the zoo comparing notes. Brad sipped a coffee as Griffin flipped through his notebook. “Nothing. No one heard or saw anything. They were drinking coffee in the bus barn when one of the drivers saw”—Griffin flipped through his notes again—“Harry fall to the ground. A few guys started toward him, but others warned them to stay back in case it was the sniper. So, basically, they watched Harry die.” Griffin tossed his notebook on his desk. “Shit.”

  “Something isn’t right,” Brad said. “If the driver was standing by his bus, not moving, why three shots? The sniper has never fired more than one shot.”

  “Copycat?” Griffin asked.

  Brad rubbed his three-day growth of beard. “Maybe. This was sloppy. Some shots are expert, others seem impulsive and imprecise. Either this guy has split personalities, or we may have to consider a two-shooter possibility.” He threw his empty coffee cup at the overflowing garbage can. “For Christ’s sake. Can’t they empty that garbage?”

  Sturgeon and Devlin, breathing hard, burst into the zoo.

  “You two will have heart attacks if you keep running like that,” Brad said.

  “We found another letter,” Sturgeon said.

  Brad bolted out of his chair. “Where.”

  “They nailed it to a tree by the garag
e behind the Ponderosa. We found it while we were searching for the bullet. We have that, too.”

  Sturgeon handed Brad a copy of the letter. He read the letter out loud.

  For Detective Colter, only. Do not open.

  The second page read:

  For you Detective Colter.

  “I am that I am”

  We have tried to contact you four times to start negotiations. But the incompatence of the cops is unacceptable.

  We don’t trust the hotline, so on Tuesday we called 403-555-6660, the lady said we had to call the hotline and hung up.

  We called 911 on Wednesday. The call went to RCMP Red Deer. The operator said the RCMP were not investigating. They said we needed to call Calgary Police as they were not investergating the shootings.

  We contacted a preacher. We confessed. He didn’t believe us.

  Brad pointed to the letter. “He makes it clear in the letter when he says we, there’s at least two of them. A spotter and the shooter. That’s what we’d do in TSU.”

  Brad continued reading the letter.

  These people took our calls to be a hoax. The little boy didn’t need to be shot, but you taunted us. You mocked us. That will cost lives.

  If stopping the killing is more important to you than catching us, you will acept our demands.

  You will place 5 milion dollars in Bank of Western Canada travelers checks in a location we will specify.

  Try catch us picking up money, and you will need more body bags.

  From now on, we only communicate with Colter.

  Will call Pondersosa restaurant at 555 897-1357 at 8 a.m. Saturday for farther information.

  You have until 8 a.m. Saturday morning to get the money.

  “Oh, no. Shit.” Brad hung his head and dropped into this chair. “The deadline has passed. That’s why there was a murder this morning. They were waiting for us to answer their call.”

  Devlin sat in a chair against the wall, legs crossed and arms over his chest. “What’s done is done. We couldn’t have known.”

  “We screwed up.”

  “We made a decision.” Devlin shrugged. “Now we make another one. How do we move forward?”

  “You’re pissing me off,” Brad said.

  “I hope so,” Devlin said. “Because you need to make the decision that moves us forward. What are you going to do?”

  The room was quiet. Brad stared at the letter.

  “Griffin. You need to talk to Archer about the five million dollars and come up with a plan if we have to pay.”

  “He will not agree to that,” Griffin said.

  Brad shrugged. “We know that, but the snipers don’t.”

  “They’ve been trying to contact us since Tuesday?” Griffin asked. “How did we screw that up?”

  “Sturgeon, follow up on the phone call Tuesday.”

  “What can I do?” Devlin asked.

  “Contact Stinson. I need a copy of that 911 tape and transcription. Then come back and help me with a press release.”

  “What are you going to tell the press?” Griffin asked.

  “I’m going to read the letter,” Brad said.

  “Are you crazy?” Griffin shouted. “We’ll appear like the stupidest cops in the world.”

  “There’s a leak to the press and I think I know who it is. So rather than have the leak send out the full letter, we release part of the letter. If the leak thinks he’s got the genuine thing, he won’t dig for the one we have.”

  “That’s crazy,” Sturgeon said.

  Devlin rubbed his chin. “No, it’s brilliant. We can let some of that information out to the public. Just not the Ponderosa phone number. We’ve got nothing to lose. If the leak and the press believe it’s real, great. If later the genuine letter comes out, well, at least we bought some time.”

  Brad put a sheet of white paper on the wall and started writing.

  Things to do/Assign duties

  Ransom—Griffin

  Set up press conference for 4:00 p.m.—PIO

  Press Conference—Brad/Devlin

  Find Preacher—Brad

  Find call to RCMP dispatch—Stinson

  Trace phone number—Sturgeon (an internal number)

  Brad stepped back from the board. “Okay. Let’s get to this. Devlin. You ready to do a news conference?”

  A few minutes before four, Brad and Devlin stepped into a meeting room at the Stampede Grounds. As much as he hated to admit it, Carew had done a decent job with little notice. At least fifty people occupied chairs facing a riser and podium. More chairs were being added. There was plenty of room for the news cameras. Best of all, the room was cool. Brad didn’t have to worry about melting from the hot lights.

  At four, Brad headed to the podium. Now, fingers crossed, they hoped the snipers were watching the news.

  “I’m Detective Coulter. Yesterday evening there was another shooting. A thirty-seven-year-old male was shot outside the Ponderosa Steakhouse. He later succumbed to his injuries in surgery. This morning there was another shooting at the Transit barns in Victoria Park. The victim, a fifty-six-year-old male, was pronounced dead at Holy Cross Hospital.”

  Brad glanced at a sheet of paper on the podium and licked his lips.

  “The sniper left a note at the scene last night, addressed to me. The weather affected our ability to locate it.”

  There was murmuring from the reporters.

  “We are handing out a copy of that letter. I will not read the letter to you. I’m sure most of you can read.”

  Dozens of hands shot into the air.

  “I will not be taking questions about the letter. I have a brief statement to make.” Brad stared at the cameras. “To the people who sent me the letter, I did not receive it until this afternoon. Please be patient with us. No lives need to be lost. I want to talk to you. I will talk to you. I’m encouraged you have contacted me. What you asked for will take time. You know the number to call. Please call me at 6:00 p.m. today.” Brad collected his notes and nodded to the room. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Brad quickly headed out a side door as reporters rushed the podium.

  Hans Keller stood on the balcony and inhaled the warm air. His eyes panned the view—palm trees, beach, and dark-blue water. This was the life, but this was the last day of vacation. He flopped onto the bed. After ten glorious days in Hawaii, they had to leave in the late afternoon. It was the most relaxing holiday he’d ever had. It was just something about Hawaii. The people were friendly, the pace slower. It was something in the air. You couldn’t help but relax.

  Every day had been a different beach in the morning, with an activity in the afternoon. Sometimes on a tour, other times they rented bikes, or they just stayed at the beach. He never wanted to leave. He’d never been so relaxed in his life. His wife headed to the shower.

  Absently, Hans grabbed the remote for the TV. That was another thing. They hadn’t watched TV during the entire vacation. It was morning in Hawaii—afternoon in Alberta. The national news came on with “Breaking News.” Surprisingly, the lead story was from Calgary. He sat up and increased the volume.

  The screen faded from the national anchor to a press conference. Leading the press conference was Brad Coulter. What the hell? Hans’s jaw dropped. Coulter—a press conference?

  He increased the volume.

  “I’m Detective Coulter. Yesterday evening there was another tragic shooting. A thirty-seven-year-old male was shot outside the Ponderosa Steakhouse. He later succumbed to his injuries in surgery. This morning there was another shooting at the Transit bus barns in Victoria Park. The victim was pronounced dead at Holy Cross Hospital.”

  There was murmuring from the reporters.

  Brad glanced at a sheet of paper on the podium and licked his lips.

  “The sniper left a note at the scene last night, addressed to me. The weather affected our ability to ...”

  Coulter—at work? Sniper … murders?

  Hans’s wife came out of the bathroo
m with merely a towel around her head. He barely noticed.

  “Hans. Hans.”

  He slowly twisted toward her voice. He still didn’t notice she was naked.

  “Hans.” Her hands were on her hips, her head cocked to the side. “What is it?”

  All he could say was, “Coulter. Son of a bitch.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  While Brad was at the press conference, Archer had arranged for the phone company to transfer the number from the Ponderosa to the zoo. This way, they didn’t have to take over the Ponderosa at 6:00 p.m. and didn’t have to worry about the press hounding them or somehow disrupting the call.

  Brad sat at the desk, phone close at hand. Devlin sat at his side with a pad of paper, ready to give Brad information on negotiations. Archer sat across from Brad while Griffin paced the room.

  The phone rang. Brad grabbed the phone. Devlin hit the record button and switched the phone to a speaker.

  “Coulter.”

  Silence on the line.

  “Coulter.”

  Again, silence. Then, “Uh, is this the Ponderosa?”

  Brad started to say no, then shook his head. “Uh, yeah. How can I help you?”

  “What time are you open until today?”

  Brad glanced at Devlin, who shrugged. Griffin shook his head. Archer didn’t make eye contact.

  “Uh, we’re open until nine.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Brad replaced the receiver and leaned back. “What was that about?”

  “Now we know the Ponderosa phone is redirected properly,” Devlin said.

  The phone rang again. “Coulter.”

  Silence on the line.

  “Coulter.”

  Again, silence. Then, “Uh, is this the Ponderosa?”

  Brad rolled his eyes. “Yes, it is.”

  “What’s the soup special today?”

  “Chicken rice,” Brad said.

  “Oh, I was hoping for Clam Chowder.”