Interference

by Danielle Girard

  Ryaan abandoned her coffee cup and crossed the lot. Chase and Naomi had the guns laid out on a tarp and were tagging them. “How many?”

  “Forty-seven,” Chase said, the flirty smile disappearing. “They were all in the trunk.”

  “But the back was open and the teacher who called it in said she watched kids take some of them. No idea how many,” Naomi added, looking equally sobered by Ryaan’s appearance.

  Chase nodded. “We’re creating a list of them now. Then we’ll get them to ballistics.”

  “Was there ammo?”

  Naomi nodded. “So far all of them have been fully loaded.” Ryaan scanned the guns. She’d have to cross reference the list with the inventory from the storage facility, but even at a glance, Ryaan knew there were still some big AK’s missing.

  If the car had been left on Mason Street near Eddy, at midnight, with the trunk open and the guns in full view, it wouldn’t have taken more than fifteen or twenty minutes for them to disappear. They were lucky that they had as many as they did. She wondered if it was luck and wrote herself a note to check on the call they’d gotten from the teacher.

  When she walked back to the car, Ryaan saw that someone had kicked over her coffee. She lifted the mug and turned it sideways, the last dribbles spilling onto the cement ground.

  “Sorry, Berry,” Roger said, noticing her. “I think Bill did that when he was photographing the car.”

  Bill raised a hand in apology and continued documenting the car.

  Ryaan set the empty mug out of reach and stifled a yawn. “Is there anything on the car to tell us where it came from?”

  “No plates and the VIN’s been destroyed. Nothing in the glove. Plenty of prints, though. And some hairs… if we find something to match them to.”

  Ryaan walked up to where the VIN plate had been removed. She glanced into the car. It was clean. Not cleaned up. There was still plenty of dirt on the floor mats and the seats were stained and torn. But there were no papers, no receipts, no documents. Nothing to provide a paper trail.

  She glanced at a divot the size of a dime in the windshield, just above the driver’s side wiper. “This from a bullet?”

  Roger shook his head and approached. “Pebble, I’d guess. Suggests some freeway driving and probably outside the area. I’ve got a sister up in Wyoming. Her cars always have those kinds of cracks in the glass.”

  Ryaan tried to picture Roger’s sister but quickly gave up. She moved to one side to get a better look at the glass. There was a small square smudge on the passenger side of the windshield. “What was here?”

  Roger leaned in. “Some sort of decal. Nice catch. Naomi, come dust this.”

  Naomi brought over a black, hard-sided case and knelt beside it. As she opened it, the top drawer lifted up and displayed two lower shelves. Naomi pulled out a blue fingerprint brush and matching powder and applied them to the spot on the windshield while Ryaan wished she had coffee.

  Naomi blew off the excess and bent in for a closer look. “I think we can make out something.”

  Bill took a series of shots with his wide-angle lens camera, and brought the image up on the screen. “Here. What does that say?”

  “Expires 08/08,” said Naomi. “Looks like a parking pass.”

  Ryaan pulled on gloves and took a roll of adhesive—almost like wide, packing tape—from the evidence box. She laid a long strip across the fingerprint powder, ran the edge of her hand over the tape and pulled it off. Ryaan stuck the tape on the clear sheet Roger had put on the top of the evidence box. She slipped the sheet into a clear page protector and held it up to the light.

  Roger stood over her shoulder. “Ancala.”

  “Country Club,” she added.

  “Where is that?” Roger asked.

  A moment later Chase looked up from his phone. “Scottsdale, Arizona.”

  “Excellent, Berry,” Roger told her. “Especially considering you didn’t get to finish your coffee.”

  “If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get another cup before I have to really start thinking.” Ryaan glared over at a sheepish Bill. “I’ll follow up with the golf club,” she said to Roger.

  “We’ll run the prints and see if we get any other trace. I’ve already got a call into ballistics to let them know the guns are coming.”

  On the far side of the car, Naomi and Chase were, once again, huddled over the guns. Naomi wrote on the tags and handed them to Chase to label the guns.

  Roger glanced over. “Remember being that young?”

  “Never.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second,” Roger said and turned his attention back to the car.

  “Thanks, Roger. I’m going to get some coffee.”

  “I’d say that’s a good idea.”

  “I am choosing not to take that as an insult.”

  Roger laughed. “Your choice, Berry.”

  Ryaan parked in her spot behind the department and crossed through the lobby toward Bryant Street. Today, she was treating herself to Starbucks. The habit was too expensive for every day. But after last night, she’d earned it. She was just coming out the front doors when Hal Harris called her name. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  “I was just going to get some coffee,” she told him, picturing Naomi’s smile and trying to look at least somewhat friendly.

  “I’ve got Albert Jackson upstairs. We held him overnight, so he’s lucid, which is rare, according to the patrol guys who usually deal with him.”

  Ryaan looked across at the mermaid on the Starbucks sign across the street then back at Hal. “Fine, I’m coming.”

  “I’ll buy you a coffee after, I promise,” Hal said, steering her back inside.

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  Hal chuckled. “No doubt you will.”

  “How did you guys get Jackson?” she asked, bringing the subject back to the comfortable territory of work.

  “They did a psych eval last night.” Hal reached around Ryaan and opened the door for her.

  “And?”

  “They say he’s competent to stand trial.”

  Flashing her badge, Ryaan walked past the metal detectors, followed by Hal, and headed for the stairs. “You don’t buy it?”

  Hal took the stairs in twos, his long legs making it look easy while Ryaan tried to keep pace. “Wait till you see him.”

  They passed through the Homicide waiting room and down the hall to the interrogation room. Hailey stood in the closet-sized viewing room, watching Jackson through the two way mirror. Albert Jackson sat with his hands folded on the table in front of him. He was dirty and unshaven, but he held his back straight with a degree of pride that was both unusual and admirable. He wore a flannel shirt, torn at one shoulder, and a gray T-shirt of some kind underneath it. His lips moved like he was chewing something or maybe talking to someone, but otherwise, he looked lucid.

  Hailey turned to them. “Morning.”

  Ryaan nodded. “Hi.”

  Hailey nodded to Jackson. “You ready to meet him?”

  Ryaan glanced back at Hal who was watching her. “Something you two want to tell me first?”

  “No,” Hailey said. “You should see it for yourself.”

  Ryaan frowned.

  “She was on her way to get coffee,” Hal told Hailey as though explaining the frown.

  “Got it. I tried to reach Patrick,” Hailey offered.

  “It’s okay,” Ryaan said. “I’m ready.”

  Hailey went first. She opened the interview room door and watched Albert Jackson jolt in his seat. He turned his head in the general direction of the door.

  “Hello, Mr. Jackson,” Hailey said.

  “Oh, yes, you back, then. I sure could use something to drink, ma’am. Did you bring an old man something to drink?”

  Ryaan stared at the swollen masses of
Albert Jackson’s eye sockets. The whites of his eyes were only visible in the inside corners, and rather than white, they were a bright scarlet red. Whitish stains trailed along each side of his nose from the stream of infected discharge, and the lids were so swollen that they essentially held the eyes closed.

  “He’s blind?” she said.

  Jackson’s face shifted toward her. “Who’s there? I thought you were the inspector. You not the inspector. Who you?”

  Ryaan glanced at Hailey then back to Jackson. “I’m an inspector, too, Mr. Jackson,” she said. “My name is Ryaan Berry. I’m with the Triggerlock group, and we’re trying to find out where the gun you fired came from.”

  “What gun? Who’s got a gun?”

  Ryaan looked over at Hailey who shrugged. “Seriously?”

  Hal shook his head.

  “I don’t know nothing about a gun, but I really could use a drink. Can one of you ladies find it in your heart to get an old man a drink?”

  “Mr. Jackson, I’ll get you a drink,” Ryaan told him, pulling up a chair and sitting across from him. “I just have a couple of questions first.”

  “Sure. ‘Course. Anything you need, Inspector.”

  From close up, his eyes looked even worse. There was a layer of yellowish crust that sealed them closed. The left one appeared to have a laceration on it as well. Maybe from a fingernail, but she couldn’t see his hands. “How long have your eyes been infected?” she asked him.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jackson said, reaching a hand up to touch his face. Ryaan looked at the gnarled shape of his hands and turned to Hal and Hailey. Hailey shook her head. “They been like this a little bit I guess.”

  “Since earlier today? Or yesterday?”

  Jackson wiped across one eye with a knobby knuckle. “Oh, no. Month, maybe two. I got something in one and I guess I rubbed it wrong then it went to the other eye.”

  Ryaan watched him put one hand down on the other. They were both misshapen. “How have you been taking care of yourself?”

  “Same as always, I guess,” Jackson told her.

  “Where are you living?”

  Jackson hitched the thumb on his gnarled hand over one shoulder as though pointing. “Oh, I got me a place down near 9th.”

  “You sleeping on the streets?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Sometimes. Or I got some other places I go.”

  “Where do you eat?”

  “Here and there.”

  Ryaan stood from the table.

  Jackson seemed to follow her movement with his head. He licked his lips. “I sure would love that drink now.”

  “Sure, Mr. Jackson. I’ll be right back.”

  In the hallway, Ryaan shook her head at Hal and Hailey. “There’s no way he shot up a bus.”

  “He did,” Hal said. “Witnesses I.D.’d him.”

  “He can’t see,” Ryaan argued. “And did you see his hands? How did he get there? How did he hold the gun?”

  “Two guns,” Hal interrupted.

  “Right. It’s amazing he didn’t kill anyone. He’s totally blind.” She looked back toward the interview room. “What does he say about it?”

  Hailey shook her head. “Doesn’t remember anything. Totally blacked out.”

  “You believe him.”

  “I wouldn’t if we hadn’t found roofies in his system,” Hailey said.

  Ryaan leaned into the wall. “What? Someone roofied a homeless man and set him up to shoot up the bus station?”

  Hal nodded. “It’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

  “I’ll say,” Ryaan agreed. “We need to find out where he’s been the past week and get a list of everyone who was a witness at the bus station. Maybe there’s someone who will jump out.”

  “I’ve already got patrol checking on Jackson’s whereabouts,” Hal said. “They’re going down to his regular sleeping spot and checking a few of the shelters he frequents. I’ll get a list of people who were in the terminal, but it’ll be a long list and it won’t be inclusive. It was 9:15 on a Wednesday morning. There are hundreds of people coming off those buses.”

  “Was he up on the platform? Maybe we can pinpoint a specific bus.”

  Hal shook his head. “He was standing at the top of the stairs, where you enter the terminal. Gun was aimed at the ceiling, which is how he missed everyone. There was some ricochet, but no one was hurt.”

  “Damn,” Ryaan said. “I’m going to get the old guy a Coke. Then I’m going to get some coffee and try to get my head around this mess.”

  “I’ll get someone to take Jackson and go with you,” Hal said.

  Ryaan fed the vending machine a dollar seventy-five, highway robbery for a soda, and pressed the button. The plastic bottle landed in the tray with a thwack. She missed the days of soda in cans. Maybe she was getting old.

  Jackson took the bottle awkwardly from her, holding it between his two hands. Ryaan stared at his hands. Arthritis had made them permanently hooked. He pressed the palm of his hand onto the top and struggled to twist it. Ryaan reached over and did it for him. “Thank you,” he told her. “These hands aren’t what they used to be.”

  Jackson took a drink. “That tastes nice, Inspector.”

  “No problem.”

  “Don’t suppose you have a little something to go in, help loosen the joints.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Jackson, I don’t.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

  Ryaan turned from the room as two patrol officers returned for Jackson. “Make sure he doesn’t spill his soda, okay?”

  One of the patrol officers gave her a strange look. The other one nodded. “Sure thing, Inspector.”

  Ryaan stepped out of the room to where Hal was waiting and exhaled. “I need that coffee.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Hal took one step down the hall when Ryaan’s cell phone buzzed on her hip. She pulled it off and recognized Patrick’s number. “Berry.”

  “Sampers called. They matched a print in the car. Steering wheel and rearview mirror were wiped clean, but our guy adjusted the seat and left a nice clean index and thumb.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Name’s Karl Penn. I’ve got his address. Want to go over there with me?”

  “I’m at Bryant. Where are you?”

  “I’ll pick you up out front in five,” Patrick said.

  “Five minutes from now?” she asked.

  Ryaan looked up at Hal who smiled and shook his head.

  Patrick didn’t even answer her. He’d already hung up.

  “Guess that coffee’s going to have to wait,” Hal said.

  Ryaan started for the stairs. Maybe she’d have time to grab a cup of departmental slop on her way out.

  Chapter 21

  J.T. had left without finishing business last night. Sam had thrown a wrench in the plans. Again. Something or other wasn’t done or he wasn’t sure if it had been done right. He needed more time. “I’ll have it done by morning,” Sam said, more snippy than usual.

  It didn’t help that J.T. was sick of Sam. The patience that had enabled Sam to live these extra days had worn thin. Plus, it felt like maybe Sam was manipulating J.T. Something about the more recent series of delays and Sam’s refusal to show J.T. exactly what was going on. “You won’t understand it anyway,” Sam had said of this last one.

  Words that should have gotten Sam killed within minutes. Either way, J.T. had decided it would be today. The gun incident last night had only further reinforced the need to end Sam. Letting him shoot that gun was a mistake. At the time, it seemed it would all be over within an hour afterward, but giving Sam the night to work also meant he had the night to get online and start talking. And J.T. knew he would.

  In fact, J.T. was so confident of the geek’s impending online blathering that Sam’s alias was being tracked and repo
rted into J.T.’s email. Something, ironically, Sam had set up himself for J.T. to track Hank and Karl. Once those were established, it didn’t take rocket science to collect Sam’s account name and alter the program for Sam.

  Sam had been especially petulant on the ride home from Mei Ling’s residence. He had wanted to keep the gun and J.T. forbade it. All that time and energy explaining why keeping a dirty weapon was a risk. “We’ve got tons of them,” J.T. had assured Sam although Sam would never shoot again.

  Sam had, in turn, whined that it was his first shot, like bagging a first deer or some such thing. J.T. had been anxious to leave and was not entirely anxious to return. But, things were already coming loose, and there was no room for error. J.T. arrived forty-five minutes before the time they’d agreed on and parked around the far side of the garage rather than in front.

  Rounding the side of the building, J.T. heard rustling sounds from the garage. J.T. halted and pressed an ear to the wall. Someone was definitely in the garage. But how? J.T. had armed it and no one else had that code. J.T. crossed to the front of the garage. Damn it, Sam. The keypad on the front was pulled loose from the building’s facade and was hanging from the wires. J.T. got close and saw that a small screwdriver was wedged between two pieces. J.T. had underestimated Sam. That was more infuriating than anything.

  J.T. stared at the door. It was closed. Opening it would be too obvious, so J.T. went past the garage door toward the apartment. The door to the house was ajar. It was Sam in the garage. No unwanted guests. At least that was good news. To be sure, J.T. crept up the stairs and checked the office. Sam wasn’t there. No, it had to be Sam in the garage.

  Back down stairs, J.T. used the key to open the first garage bay where the white truck was parked. It looked the same as it had. Sam had been after the guns. He would find Hank if he hadn’t already. J.T. closed the door to the apartment and crossed the garage to the far door, taking a moment to listen. Even with the door closed, the smell made it hard to swallow. This place should have been destroyed two days ago. Instead, Hank’s body was likely deep into putrefaction, his intestines distended, his skin green. What the hell was Sam doing in there, and why was he so quiet?