by DiAnn Mills
Two TV vans and several media representatives stayed behind HPD’s barrier.
Monica’s thoughts exploded with the implications of today’s crime, grim, and yet if the dead man had been Prince Omar, the whole world would be in an uproar with talk of the US’s lack of security. And worse. The greater good crossed her mind, and acid rose from her stomach. No one had the right to choose one man’s life over another.
The sniper had needed time to plan the kill, which meant he’d learned about the prince’s schedule early on—not followed the entourage from the airport. She assumed the killer had military training. Sounded to her like the prince had an enemy within his household. She could only imagine his response. He’d demand proof without a loophole and blame US security before looking at his own people.
“What are the chances the sniper got in and out of the school without someone seeing him?” Kord said.
“Kord, you and I could do it and few would know we were here.”
“Unfortunately you might be right. Whoever pulled the trigger has professional stamped on his training. Look at the strategic planning and accuracy.”
“We’ll get it figured out.” Zain was his friend, and she kept discounting how the impact of his death had to be weighing on him.
“I want the investigation reports now.”
She hadn’t decided if they could work together amicably. One minute he seemed human and the next unpredictable. She’d been accused of the same characteristics. If she’d lost a good friend today and another friend’s life was in danger, she might be crabby too. Given the tragedies, she’d try to curb her tongue.
An HPD officer met them at the school entrance with a middle-aged woman who trembled as though she might fall. “I’m the principal here.” She clenched her fists, and instead of reaching out to shake their hands, she fished through her purse and produced a prescription bottle. Being in charge of a high school and knowing a sniper had fired from the roof of her building might cause the most sane to consider unorthodox coping mechanisms. The woman tapped the prescription bottle into her hand—a green capsule resembling Prozac. “It’s for my heart,” she said.
“We’re from the FBI,” Kord said. “We have a few questions about the crime committed here today.”
“Have you read the police report?” the principal said. “It’s all there.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’d like to talk privately,” Kord said. “A bodyguard from the Saudi royal family was killed.”
The principal’s eyes widened. “I thought it was a random shot, not a murder. I should have paid better attention. Are you certain?”
“It’s a confirmed hit.”
The principal glanced away, then back to them. “This is devastating news. Identification, please. She looks like a reporter to me. And we can talk out here in the open.”
Monica and Kord displayed their FBI IDs. She didn’t mind wearing her earlier work clothes. It simply deepened her cover with the public. Luckily this wasn’t her or Kord’s first rodeo—respecting others’ positions, responsibilities, and emotions were part of riding the wild bronc while ensuring critical situations were handled.
“Today must have tested your stress level,” Monica said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s been trying.” The principal relaxed slightly.
“Did anyone report an unusual occurrence, see someone on campus who alarmed them?”
“I repeat. I’ve given my report to HPD.” She blinked dramatically. “Nothing confirmed. Some of my students want to be in the middle of this, while others are afraid to step forward. That goes for teachers, staff, and workers too.” She pointed to the construction of the new building. “I have no idea if they saw anything.”
Monica smiled into her pale face. “We’ll receive a copy of the reports and base our interviews on those. When were you aware of the shooting?”
“Police officers arrived about fifteen minutes after it was determined someone had fired from the roof.”
“What happened then?”
“We went into lockdown mode for two and a half hours, even those working on the new facility. Students and faculty stayed in their respective rooms while officers searched the building. Afterward they suggested we evacuate the building. No one exited without identification, and every student and faculty member met with the same scrutiny and questioning before leaving the grounds. The procedure took an extremely long time. We barely finished before you two arrived.”
“How is the roof accessed?” Kord said.
“I’ve already given the information to HPD.” The principal lifted her chin at the officer standing nearby. “Would you escort these two investigators?”
“Yes, ma’am. Which of the two routes do you recommend?”
“Both,” Kord said before the principal opened her mouth. “Has there been a report of anyone attempting to access the area after the shooting, other than law enforcement?”
The principal and officer responded negatively.
Monica lent a gentler tone to her words—despite her growing impatience with the principal. “We’d like to see the video surveillance over the past three days, inside the building, parking lot, and construction site.”
“We’ll need a search warrant. A very specific one.”
“It’s been ordered and signed. A sniper just killed a man, and that someone is on the streets, perhaps ready to strike again.”
“My students need protection.”
“That’s exactly what we’re talking about,” Kord said. “Do you want another death on your conscience related to your school?”
“We have guidelines. Until I have the signed search warrant, no one sees a thing.”
“We’re all fortunate the sniper didn’t open fire on the students and faculty,” Kord said.
“You’re right.” She inhaled sharply. “I doubt the footage will do much good. The building is to receive a refresh of the security system. Some of the areas are not covered.”
“The roof?”
“No.” She moistened her lips. “But the parking lot is adequately monitored.”
Monica tamped down her irritation with this woman. “You understand the media has already splattered the story all over the country. Needless to say it’s an international incident. The whole world is looking at your school and the retail strip across the street. We’re all concerned about the students and faculty. So have you spoken to the school board or superintendent about closing tomorrow? I’d think it would be imperative.”
The principal tensed again. “The announcement will be made shortly. Our schools must be safe for our students.” She touched her heart.
More dramatics or a serious health issue? “Are you okay? Do we need to call 911?”
The woman drew in a breath. “I’m all right. Just shaken.”
Maybe the woman was nearing shock, and she and Kord had pushed her too hard. “Would you like to go inside, where you can sit?”
“I’d rather finish our conversation so I can rest alone.”
Monica needed to put herself in the woman’s shoes and stop judging. “We simply want to make sure the killer is apprehended before another tragedy occurs.”
“We all want to think our country is safe for visitors. I’m sorry for my rudeness. The nightmarish incident has me worried about all those within my responsibility. I’ll show you the stairways. No need for this officer to extend his duties.”
They followed the principal through the school’s main entrance. She escorted them to a door labeled Roof Access and indicated the location of the other door.
“I assume the stairways to the roof are normally locked?” Kord said.
“Yes. Except they’re open now with HPD’s activities. Once you’re atop, you’ll see the stairs on the north side.”
Monica opened the door and flipped on a light. She snapped pics of dirty footprints on the stairway but doubted it would lead them anywhere. The sniper had far too much intelligence to leave a trace of evidence.
With
the sniper’s success today, what awaited them an hour from now? Tonight? Tomorrow?
THE MARCH WIND BLEW with its typical fervor on the school rooftop, and gray clouds gathered like soldiers readying for an attack. Kord glanced at Monica to make sure she hadn’t been tossed off. “Need help?” he said.
She shook her head. “If I can’t manage a little breeze, I might as well pack up my toys and go home. I’ve tracked the storm heading this way, and it’s a biggie. We’re lightning rods up here.” She laughed at the wind, and it blew her hair back.
Model perfect. She didn’t take trash from anyone. Kord caught his thoughts before they ran wild.
“I want us to find evidence before the rain washes it away.” She shrugged. “My optimism is showing through.”
“We need it.”
They greeted the officers and learned nothing had been found.
“We’re not giving up, considering the international spin,” an officer said.
Leaving a casing behind would have been a generous touch, but the sniper had no reason to be obliging. Kord and Monica made their way to the north side of the roof, where the sniper had waited for the right moment to pull the trigger. There, the officers left them alone to resume their own sweep.
Monica spent several moments with binoculars focused on the crime scene across the street.
“Anything?” he said.
“Maybe. I’m thinking about it.” She panned the area. “Doesn’t take much to pick a lock to get up here, but I’ve calculated the distance, and we’re looking at over six hundred feet. That wouldn’t take a professional, but assembling and disassembling a weapon with precision and pulling this off is another matter. If he posed as a kid, then a backpack would be a perfect cover.” Her attention swung from one entrance door to the other. “Want to know the odds of us finding a trace of evidence after HPD and the FBI have spent time on this roof?”
“No. Might be depressing.”
“If it’s here, we’ll find it.”
There went her optimism again. Sorta balanced his grief and frustration. Later when they were alone, he’d ask about her past assignments, take the time to get to know her better. . . . Maybe he’d been too rash, judgmental. Maybe she could handle Saudi opposition.
“The sniper wouldn’t have taken any chances of being seen,” she said. “Walking across the roof or stooping to avoid detection is an amateur’s method.”
“So he crawled from the southern entrance, which is closer than the northern.” He eyeballed an imaginary line from the shooting point to the southern door in question. Dropping to his knees, he moved along the sniper’s probable path, dragging his fingers and palms over every inch and looking for whatever he could find.
Thunder rumbled from the west.
Monica pulled the pair of latex gloves from her pocket and scrutinized a few feet in every direction.
“Sealing this in your memory?” he said.
“Yep.” She silently imitated him, covering twelve feet of width between them. He observed her meticulous examination. She drew her hands over the roof, hesitating in some areas and picking through debris, stones, dirt, dried bird droppings.
Thunder cracked louder.
She coughed lightly. “I found what I think is clothing fibers, possibly cotton.”
He crawled her way.
“Here’s a jagged piece of the roof, enough to tear clothing.” She gathered up the fibers and dropped them into a plastic bag before handing them to him.
“Good one, Monica.”
“Depends if my find belongs to the killer or a kid who sneaked up here with his buds or a girlfriend. DNA testing takes a while, and even so, there may not be a match in the system. Which means you pocketed a long shot. We can put a rush on it.”
“It’s a start.”
“Two things would help me feel better—our sniper caught on camera and a witness.”
“Add a third—who turned on Prince Omar?”
“I’ll take that. Does he interrogate his own like others in that neck of the woods?” she said.
“Skillfully if he’s angry. Dicey no matter how it pans out.” He paused. “It’s not one of his. I know every person he brought with him.”
Lightning cut across the sky.
Thunder split his eardrum.
HPD cleared the rooftop.
“I want to finish up here,” she said. “And hope our bosses won’t be replacing our fried bodies with another team.”
Within minutes, the clouds exploded, raindrops pelting them like tiny stones. They spent a few more minutes on the roof. The clothing fibers were all they found.
Once they descended the stairs to the ground floor, they shook off the water drenching them and walked a hallway leading to a side entrance. “The interviews won’t be released until late tonight or tomorrow, and we won’t be the ones conducting them,” he said.
“What do you say about checking out the physical fitness building behind us?”
“Any particular reason?”
“A hunch. Saw cars parked beside the building when we arrived.”
The closer they walked, the more the sound of voices and the rhythmic pounding of a ball captured his attention. “Why are kids in the gym if the school was evacuated?”
“Good question.”
They walked to the gym door, and he opened it for her to enter. The scent of sweating teen boys playing basketball brought back memories, the steady thump of the ball and sitting on the bench. Two coaches worked the boys on either end of the court, one layup after another.
Kord and Monica walked the sideline to one of the coaches, a man built like an outhouse. “My partner and I are investigating a shooting from the school roof. Is there a reason why the boys haven’t been dismissed?”
“We have permission from HPD. This area has been cleared.” The coach never took his eyes off the players. “We have play-offs and gotta have the practice if we’re going to walk away with a trophy.”
If Kord hadn’t needed info, he’d have questioned the coach’s priorities. The players’ parents would handle his stupidity of putting their kids in potential danger. “Mind if we talk to the boys?”
“We’re almost finished. Fifteen more minutes.”
Great. School pride wins.
Monica strutted her wet stuff onto the gym floor. She waved her hands. “Hey, guys, can I have your attention for a few minutes?”
Every boy and two coaches were glued to the petite blonde. Admiration rose for his partner. Not that he doubted her abilities—she was quickly earning his respect.
“Y’all are aware a hit man found a way to the roof of your school and murdered a man across the street. Did any of you see anything? A stranger on the grounds carrying the means to assemble a rifle?”
“Listen up,” a second coach said. “This is important. Police officers asked us the same things, and none of us came forward. Think about this morning. Now’s the time to speak up.”
The boys shook their heads. One continued to bounce a ball.
“Have you talked to the janitors?” the second coach said to Monica.
“We will. Wanted to check with your players first.”
A leggy boy stepped forward. “I might have information for you. I had an orthodontist appointment this morning and got to school late. I saw a man carrying a toolbox. Not walking toward the construction site. He asked me how to find the janitors’ office. Probably nothin’.”
“Can you describe him?” Kord said.
“Jeans, baseball cap, button-down shirt. Maybe five foot seven.”
“Race?”
The kid hesitated. “Kinda Hispanic, but not black. Slight accent.”
“What kind?” Kord said.
He shrugged.
Middle Eastern? He didn’t want to put words into the boy’s mouth.
Monica spoke up. “Were his jeans torn?”
“I don’t know,” the boy said.
Kord recalled the fibers in his pocket. “How old was he?”
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“My dad’s age maybe. Or yours.”
Kord had officially climbed over the hill. “Can you describe the toolbox?”
The kid did an assessment with his hands, approximately two feet long. “Black. Metal.”
Kord made his way to the boy and shook his hand. “Thanks. We appreciate it.” He nodded at Monica. “Other than determining where the sniper entered the school, do you have any more questions?”
“Just one more.” She waved at the group of players and coaches and reverted her attention to the boy. “Which way did he go?”
The boy dragged his tongue across his lips. “Outside and down the hall to the left.”
Kord and Monica followed the boy’s directions and entered the office. An older man sat at a desk filling out some kind of paperwork. Kord explained why they were there. “We know you’ve been asked the same questions, but repetition often sparks our memories.”
“Sure. I don’t mind. I came back on my own after the kids and teachers were evacuated. Police said it was okay for us to use this building. Work goes on. Didn’t see nary a thing.”
“We’re interested in a man dressed in jeans and carrying a toolbox,” Kord said.
The man tightened his brow. “Didn’t see any strangers.”
“Are all of your fellow workers accounted for?”
“All but Chip. He must have gone home.” He paused. “I know he missed an interview from HPD, and an officer requested his number.”
“Can you call him?” Kord said.
“Sure.” The man pressed in a number on his cell phone. After several long moments, the man offered Kord eye contact. “Chip, would you give me a call? You left without signing out.” He laid his phone on the desk. “He must be busy.”
“Sir—” Monica leaned in closer—“I’m sure there are areas of the school where only janitors are permitted. Can we take a look?”