Shoot to Thrill

by P. J. Tracy

  He jumped when his phone rang and he snatched the receiver when he saw Magozzi’s name on the caller ID. “Tell me you’re calling with good news, Detective.”

  “I am, Judge. Law enforcement on the scene at the Wisconsin diner wanted me to let you know you saved a life.” He heard the judge take a breath, then blow it out. “You were dead-on with the location. Thanks to your info, the cops got there before the perp could do serious damage.”

  Magozzi rubbed at his tired eyes while he waited for the expected thank-you-for-the-call, but all he got was silence. After five seconds of that, he started to get pissed. Just picking up the phone had been a courtesy; one the judge obviously didn’t deserve.

  Finally, “And was the victim a woman, Detective Magozzi?”

  “Of course it was a woman. Pink polyester, remember? What did you think? That it was a gay golfer?” Bizarrely, he heard the definitive sound of liquid being poured into a glass, and then the unmistakable noise of gulping. Jeez. What an asshole. Did the old bastard actually think Magozzi was going to stand there and listen to him drink himself to death? “Listen, Judge . . .”

  “Thank you for calling, Detective.” And then an abrupt disconnect.

  CHAPTER 21

  TOMMY ESPINOZA CONNECTED WITH THE WORLD ON THE Internet. He did his shopping, he watched television programs, he got his news, and occasionally found a date. Nothing he did in his life originated anywhere else. He didn’t really understand people who lived any other way, and when Magozzi and Gino stopped in his office, he assumed that they, like he, knew everything that had appeared online.

  “You guys are famous,” he said when they crowded into his space.

  “Oh, yeah?” Gino was rummaging through the offerings on the snack table, all ordered online, delivered right to his door.

  “Totally. You saw the morning shows, right?”

  “Nah,” Gino said around a rippled potato chip. “Angela won’t let me watch the morning news since my last physical. Anything pops, I gotta go back on the blood-pressure meds, and let me tell you how those things suck.”

  “Jeez, Gino, go to the gym, eat lettuce.”

  “I’d rather die. So why are we famous?”

  “Well, not exactly you guys, but MPD and Monkeewrench. The

  Wisconsin thing last night. The waitress is doing interviews all over the place from her hospital bed. It’s been streaming all morning. Pull up a couple chairs and I’ll show you some footage.”

  A young field reporter stood next to a satellite van from a Milwaukee TV station, talking earnestly into a microphone while the sun rose over the alfalfa field behind him and a cow lowed in the background. “This is rural Wisconsin. Farm country.”

  Gino rolled his eyes. “Jeez, buddy, what was your first clue? The cow? The hay field?”

  Tommy stabbed pause and glared at Gino. “You want to hear this or not?”

  “Probably not. It’s just another asshole cub reporter trying to hit the anchor desk on the back of somebody else’s misfortune. Fifty bucks the kid asks her how she felt when the guy tied her up and came at her with a knife. Duh.”

  Magozzi sighed and circled his forefinger at Tommy.

  “Forty miles from the closest town of any size,” the newscaster continued, “over a hundred miles from any of the larger cities that foster crime. According to the locals, nothing bad ever happens here, but all that changed last night.” As he spoke, the camera panned left to show a long shot of the Little Steer Diner. “Twenty-year-old Lisa Timmersman was alone in this diner last night, just about to close up when a last customer came in and viciously attacked her. She was beaten, duct tape was placed over her mouth, hands and legs tied to one of the counter stools. ‘I’m afraid this is going to be very painful,’ her attacker said as he approached her with a large knife.”

  The film cut to Lisa in a hospital bed. One side of her face was black-and-blue, the eye swollen shut, black stitches cutting from her cheek to her lips. Tears welled as she recalled her ordeal.

  “He wanted to kill me. I don’t know why. I didn’t even know him. And then he heard Mr. Goebel’s siren. Deputy Goebel, you know? And he ran away. Mr. Goebel saved my life. He’s a hero. A real hero.”

  Cut to film that was presumably Deputy Goebel, walking away from the camera, holding up a hand to fend them off, saying, “No comment.”

  “Good cop,” Gino muttered.

  “But Deputy Goebel wasn’t the only hero in this near-tragedy,” the newscaster went on. “A confidential source has told WKAL Milwaukee News that Monkeewrench, a computer company operating out of Minneapolis, was instrumental in saving Lisa Timmersman’s life. They were the ones, along with an agent of the FBI, that notified the local sheriff that there would be a murder attempt at the Little Steer last night. How did they know this was going to happen? How did they know someone was planning to kill Lisa Timmersman? What is the FBI’s involvement? These are questions that have yet to be answered, but WKAL is investigating. In the meantime, the police are asking for your help identifying Lisa’s attacker, who is still at large. If you recognize the man in this sketch, please call the tip-line number at the bottom of the screen.”

  Tommy navigated away from the news report. “There’s a lot more in this report—interviews with Lisa’s family and friends, small-town stuff like that—but it gets worse. By the time the Today show hit the air they had Monkeewrench’s history and, amazingly, the whole story about the Internet murders, the FBI connection, and Monkeewrench finding the code that gave them advance warning of murders to come.”

  “That sucks,” Gino was shaking his head. “If we don’t already have copycats, we’ll probably get some now.”

  “Trust me, we already have copycats by the truckload . . . oh, come on, Gino, shove your eyes back in their sockets. I didn’t mean copycat killers—so far we haven’t hit on any of those. But thanks to the media, the format of the code is all over the friggin’ TV, in every newspaper, and the goddamned Web is on fire. So now we’ve got a bumper crop of assholes who know to capitalize letters one, three, six, and nine to get a little attention. I just screened over two hundred new pre-posts in the last hour, and that’s just Minneapolis. Look at this one. ‘CiTy oF laKes, Bob banged Betty in the Boy’s Bathroom.’ Jesus. It’s a nightmare. We didn’t know what was real and what was just a prank before, when this story was under wraps, but now we’re getting buried. And to give you an indication of how bad it really is, Federal Cyber Crimes already has a new task force set up, just to deal with this, and since when did the government have a twenty-four-hour turnaround time on getting anything done?”

  “What are they doing about it?” Magozzi asked. “What can they do?”

  Tommy shrugged. “Most of them are stupid, like ‘Bob banged Betty,’ but the locals have busted a few cyber-bully kids who think it’s funny to put up pre-posts about murdering whoever stole their milk money in the lunch line. But what are you going to do? Throw a thirteen-year-old kid in the pen for making terroristic threats?”

  “Hell, yes!” Gino snapped. “Christ, are there any parents out there anymore, or is it the hot new trend to let wolves and the Web raise your kids? If one of my spawn did something like that, I’d hog-tie ’em, smear ’em with honey, and throw ’em on a fire-ant hill.”

  “You would not,” Magozzi said.

  “Well, maybe not my kids, but one of my neighbors’ kids did that . . .”

  “It’s not just kids,” Tommy said. “A few other nutters have been busted. Point is, the copycats aren’t in the same league technology-wise as our murderer . . . or murderers. They’re not using anonymity software, and they’re not running through foreign servers, so it’s a no-brainer to trace them. But the really bad guys are seriously dialed-in.”

  “What I’d like to know is how the media got all this information,” Magozzi said.

  Tommy shrugged. “Who were the insiders on all of this shit, besides Monkeewrench, the Feds, and us? I’m thinking it’s gotta be one of the hackers the FB
I brought in, long on info and short on cash. I mean, the Feds have been using hackers forever, and most of them are straight-up dope when they get the call, either because there’s money involved, or a commuted sentence. But it’s always dicey when you get criminals to help you catch other criminals. So, you guys want to see more coverage, or do you want to see what I dug up on that list of vics you gave me yesterday?”

  Gino asked, “Anything in there we’re going to like?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly an earthquake, but there are a couple of things that are kind of interesting.”

  Magozzi looked at Tommy. “Shoot.”

  “I’ll give you guys all the paper on this so you can take a closer look for yourself, but here’s the short version—Minnesota is the common denominator for six of the victims. And five of those six have criminal records right here in the Land of Lakes. What’s that do for you?”

  Gino made a sock face. “Makes me want to move to Iowa.”

  “Which vics have the sheets?” Magozzi wanted to know.

  Tommy consulted a handwritten piece of scrap paper that looked like it was written in Aramaic. “Elmore Sweet in Cleveland—and by the way, you guys were right about him being the same weasel from Ely. Justice is finally served.”

  “Awesome,” Gino said, pumping his fist.

  Tommy continued deciphering his notes. “Then your North Shore guy, Austin, Chicago, and L.A. Your river bride is the sixth Minnesota link, but he-she-whatever didn’t have a record, just a lifetime resident of our fair state.”

  “All men.”

  “Yep. The two women have no records and no Minnesota connection.”

  “So what kind of crimes are we looking at?” Gino asked.

  “Well, basically, you’ve got a Greatest Hits list of dirty deeds: the two pedophiles—Elmore Sweet and your North Shore hole in one; vehicular manslaughter, a nasty domestic, and a drive-by that popped a five-year-old girl asleep in her bed.”

  Gino had that gleam in his eye that always terrified Magozzi, because it was usually the precursor to some spectacularly whacked theory. “Bad men,” he pointed out. “Bad, dead men, specifically targeted, who all had their own victims at one point. I know what this is. Couldn’t be more clear.”

  Magozzi and Tommy didn’t even bother to ask, because they knew Gino would march out his latest and greatest without encouragement.

  “We’re looking at a bunch of vigilante killings, guys. It’s the only thing that makes sense. And let’s face it. We’ve been getting more and more of those lately.”

  Tommy thought about that, tipping his head back and forth to shake the memories out of his brain. “All those old people killing each other.”

  “Exactly. And let’s not forget our little snowman fiasco just last winter . . .”

  “All right, all right,” Magozzi said irritably. “So we’ve had some vigilante killings. They’ve always been around, just like any other motive for murder. But that’s not what’s happening here.”

  Gino folded his arms over his chest. “I got two words for you. Charles Bronson.”

  “Who’s Charles Bronson?” Tommy asked.

  “Are you kidding me? Mr. Vigilante is who he is, or was. He might be dead, I’m not sure. Anyway, it’s an old movie. Thugs kill his family, he loads up and off he goes, popping people right and left. That was a seriously popular movie, and you know why? Because sometimes the justice system lets people down, and until we stop letting pedophiles and murderers walk, we’re going to have Charles Bronsons out there.”

  Magozzi rolled his eyes. “Damnit, Gino, I don’t care how many vigilantes are out there, these are not revenge killings.”

  “Why not?”

  “First off, it’s too risky, because there’s a past personal connection. Second, revenge killers are focused on eliminating whoever they’re pissed at, not in showing off trophies.”

  “Maybe they all found each other on the Web and egged each other on, like Chelsea said.”

  Magozzi shook his head. “If you’re out to avenge the death of a loved one, you’re not going to pre-advertise on the Web. You want the guy dead. Why take the chance that someone can find out ahead of time and stop you? Vigilantes are on a holy mission; what’s happening here is some kind of sick game-playing.”

  Gino thought about that for a minute, then stuck his lips out as far as they would go. “Well, gee, Leo, thanks a whole hell of a lot. There you go, popping a real pretty fantasy bubble once again, trashing one of my more brilliant theories. So if it’s not pissed-off survivors, and it’s not a single killer, then the victims aren’t going to have anything in common. So what the hell are we looking for?”

  “Damned if I know. But we’re going to keep looking until we find it.”

  Gino turned his attention back to Tommy. “Did you print out complete files on all the victims?”

  “Hey, I’m your man, of course I did. Everything’s in there.” He pointed to an enormous box sitting by his door.

  Gino’s jaw went slack. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. That box is bigger than my first house.”

  CHAPTER 22

  CHIEF ELIAS FROST HAD BEEN SITTING IN THE CORNER OF the tiny ICU cubicle since Marian had gotten out of surgery. The nurses had tried to kick him out; even a couple of well-intentioned doctors; but he was having none of that.

  “She won’t be able to talk,” the doctors told him.

  “You said she moved her hands.”

  “That’s correct. There’s no paralysis.”

  “Then maybe she can write.”

  “Chief Frost, if she wakes up at all within the next forty-eight hours, it’s going to be a miracle.”

  “Then I’ll wait for a miracle.”

  He’d seen a few of those in ICU rooms just like this one over his twenty-odd years on the force. No reason he couldn’t see another one. Especially this one.

  Her last name was Brandemeyer, on loan from the useless piece of crap she’d married when marijuana and motorcycles were more of a magnet than a skinny kid who wanted to be a cop. She’d dumped the garbage when he started hitting her, but kept the name because there was a daughter. But he never did think of her with a last name. Just Marian. A single-name person, like Elvis or Cher.

  No way in the world he could have recognized her face. It was all swollen and mottled from the surgery. But they had her hands outside the sheet, and he would have known them anywhere. Lord knows he should have; he’d held them often enough when they were an item in high school. Going steady, is what they called it then, back when Medford only had one high school and everybody knew everybody else.

  He looked at his watch and marked the thirteenth hour of his vigil. When he looked up again he had one of those horror-movie moments when the eyes of the dead person in the coffin suddenly open, and you think you’ll have a heart attack right there in your seat with popcorn all over your lap.

  Get a grip, Frost. You’re so tired you can hardly see straight, and you’ve been looking at her too long, that’s all. Willing her to live and waiting for her to die, and now your eyes are playing tricks. Look away, slow down the heart, take some deep breaths.

  He did all that, but when he looked at her again, Marian’s eyes were still open and staring.

  Oh, Jesus, please, no . . .

  He tiptoed over to her bedside, which was really stupid, after all the loud talking he’d done in the past hours, trying to wake her up. Why do you try to wake up people who are unconscious and try not to wake up people who were dead?

  And then she blinked.

  The doctor and nurses shooed him out while they did whatever it was you did when someone who was supposed to die decides to give it another shot. “Two minutes for you, two minutes for the daughter,” the doctor told him when they were finished.

  Frost went back to her bedside and touched her hand for the first time in over twenty years. “You’re in the hospital and you’re going to be okay”—he told her the things he knew she would want to know immediately. “Ali
ssa is doing all right, but she was exhausted. I made her stretch out on a sofa in the waiting room for a while. I’ll go get her.”

  Marian winced when she tried to move her head, then raised her right forefinger.

  It broke his heart watching her struggle to lift that single finger as if it weighed a million pounds. “You don’t want me to get her?”

  Frost’s heart skipped a beat when she moved the finger a little more. He pulled out his notebook, laid it at her side, and put a pen in her hand.

  IN ANY HOSPITAL HE’D ever been in, the Intensive Care Unit waiting room made the rest of the place look like a sci-fi bus stop, and this one was no different. No dinky cubicles with plastic chairs here. Soft furniture in gentle colors, carpet underfoot, lamps on real wood tables instead of that crappy fluorescent lighting that made everyone look half-dead. They had food and drinks on a long table with a cloth, televisions and computers, books and magazines, and a lot of plants. The plants always made him feel good, until he started thinking that they might live a lot longer than anybody in ICU. Families in crisis mode had long, agonizing waits in places like this, and someone had put a lot of thought into making it easier.

  Alissa was curled on her side on a green sofa with little white dots. She was pretty like her mother, fresh-faced like her mother used to be before life wore her down. Frost laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and whispered her name. “Your mother’s awake.”

  She was awake instantly, on her feet, hugging him hard, and he reminded himself not to make too much of that. People were always hugging people in places like this.

  He waited until the glass door had closed behind her before he went to a phone, pulled his notebook out of his pocket, and flipped it open. Marian had managed only three letters in faint, wavering print: “ENG.”