Playing With Fire

by Dirk Greyson

  Damn it. He knew he had a type; hell, he’d always known, even before Garrett—geeky-professor sort, with their slight awkwardness and glasses. They had to have glasses. But he’d been down that road twice. Once just after college, and it had ended, not badly, but out of necessity for him. Jim had been young and had moved on… to Garrett. Garrett had captured his heart, stayed with him for three years, and then left him for greener academic pastures.

  “Fuck this shit,” Jim said out loud as he rolled over yet again. That path was closed, and he wasn’t doing it again.

  Jim punched the pillow and forced his mind onto the rippling water outside the window. It was going to be another hellacious night.

  Chapter 2

  THE ALARM was about to ring, and Barty switched it off. He hated the buzz, and every time it actually sounded, it threw off his day. Of course, most people would ask why he kept it. He hated the thing, so he was always sure to wake up before it. See, there were reasons why he did things, even if the rest of the world didn’t understand. Barty was used to that. No one understood him, and they hadn’t in quite a few years. Well, if he thought about it, no one had really gotten what things were like in his head, but at least his nana had tried to understand.

  “Barty, sometimes you have to put others first,” she used to tell him.

  “But why?” he’d asked.

  “Because it’s nice, and because hurting others is bad and we want to be good. And if you’re good, then maybe other people will be good to you.” She’d told him that over and over again, and Barty had tried to live by that even if he still didn’t understand. Finally he’d put it all down to being nice. He could be nice.

  “Thanks, Nana,” Barty said softly, although the woman was nowhere near to hear, as he got out of the bed to the protest of his bedmate. “Penelope,” he said, and she stretched her long, sleek gray body before coming around to rub against him. Of course, he knew it was preparation for the demand for food that was to come later, but Barty loved her motor purr when she wanted attention. He gently stroked her and then got up, put on his robe, and strode out into the other room of his tiny apartment. There were only three if the bathroom counted, but he liked it and it was enough for the two of them.

  Barty went through his morning routine like the efficient clockwork it was: starting the coffee, feeding Penelope, brushing his teeth, and cleaning up. Once he was done, he poured his first cup of coffee and went to his bedroom with the cat right behind him. She jumped on the bed and sat down, grooming herself while Barty dressed. Their pattern had only changed the last time Barty had taken her to the vet and she’d had to stay all night. The poor thing had howled the following morning until Barty brought her home, and then she went about the routine like it had never been interrupted.

  Once he was dressed, he checked himself in the mirror, not because he particularly cared how he looked, but he didn’t want to make a bad impression. “Clothes matter, and you want others to like you,” Nana had said, so he took her words to heart.

  The last thing he did was make sure Penelope had food and water for the day before picking up his folio. He waited by the door, and Penelope jumped onto the stool he kept there for her. He stroked her twice and got purrs as a reward before leaving the apartment.

  Normally Barty bicycled to work whenever he could. It was good for the environment, and it meant he didn’t have to brave the city streets in a car. He hated cars with a passion, but he had one and used it when he needed to. That was why he always went in to work so early. Traffic was less, and he could remain stress-free. Barty unlocked his green Escort, got inside, started it, and rolled down the windows to air out the mustiness. Then backed out of his spot and drove to the police station.

  He arrived in plenty of time and wished he’d asked Jim where he should park, but he found a spot and got out of the car.

  “That’s for employees,” an officer said as he came out of the building.

  Barty looked around and then turned back to the man. “I am one for today, I guess.” He walked up to the door the officer had come out of and stopped when he was tapped on the shoulder.

  “You need to go to the front.” He took Barty by the arm.

  “I’m here to see Detective Jim Crawford,” Barty said, yanking his arm away. “I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself. That kind of touching isn’t appropriate.” He glared at the man as he brushed off his sleeve. “I’m expected.” He waited. “Well, are you going to show me where he is?” It was a perfectly logical question, and Barty waited for an answer.

  “This way,” the officer said, motioning and following Barty as he went farther inside and up the stairs. “Wait right here,” the officer said and walked to where Barty saw Jim standing.

  Jim motioned him over. “I see you made it.” He glanced at the clock and then back at him.

  “Yes. You said you would have things for me to look at,” Barty said, ready to get right to work.

  “I do. Would you like some coffee?” Jim led the way to the coffeemaker, poured two cups, and handed one to Barty. “I have things laid out in a conference room for you, along with what we think is going on. I figured you could look at it and give us some insight into where we went wrong.”

  “Would it also be possible to visit each of the shooter locations?” Barty’s mind spun quickly, trying to run through what he already knew and where the holes were. That was the easy part, because there were many of those at the moment.

  “Of course,” Jim said. “I can take you there later this morning or this afternoon.”

  Barty followed Jim to the conference room and took a seat. He looked through the pictures of the various crime scenes and shooter locations and maps of the various scenes on the board, as well as witness statements. He read fast, but it still took him nearly three hours to review and digest all the information.

  “You were very thorough, and your killer is smarter than I originally thought.”

  “How so?” Jim said as he set another cup of coffee on the table for him.

  Barty looked up from his handwritten notes and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” Jim pulled out the chair next to his and sat, watching him intently. “So what insights do you have?” He sipped from his paper cup.

  “Well, look here.” Barty grabbed one of the pictures. “This roof is composite with an aggregate overlay. You found the bullet calling card here, but there are no footsteps at all and nothing is disturbed. So he either scaled the building somehow or wiped out his tracks….” Barty paused.

  “That’s what we figured.”

  “There’s a third option. The bullet was there all along.” Barty thought out loud. “If I were to plan something like this and I wanted to get even with a town or send some kind of message this way, I’d have scouted out my locations. I’d know them forward and backward… in advance.”

  “Isn’t there the chance they’d be discovered?”

  “Why? Anyone who did would simply think them odd. It’s only when there’s a shooting that they’d make any sense at all. So if I were him—and this is a far-reaching and far-thinking man, a chess player.” Barty looked up again. “Yes. He loves chess, or did. And he’s thinking eight, maybe ten moves ahead.”

  “Okay.” Jim was taking notes, and Barty returned to the photographs.

  “I need to see this location, right now.” He stood, waiting for Jim impatiently. “It’s supposed to rain in a few hours, and if it does, what I need to see will be gone.”

  “All right. I’ll drive. Let’s go.” Jim left the conference room, grabbing a camera along the way, led them out to a car, and then drove the few blocks to where the shooting took place.

  Barty got out, looking around.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for the way up,” Barty said, checking all the sides of the building.

  “There’s a stairway to the roof inside.” Jim opened the back door, and they went up. “It wasn’t locked.”

 
; “Nothing like making things easy for us,” Barty said, and Jim followed Barty up to the top and then through the door to the roof. “Can I look around?”

  “Yes. We found the casing over there.”

  Barty shook his head. “Where was the victim shot?”

  Jim showed him, and Barty nodded, keeping an eye on that spot as he moved around the roof. “Look at this,” he said a few minutes later when he spotted three indentations in the aggregate. “Here is where he took the shot. The rifle was on a tripod that left these indentations. My guess is that the casing was planted days before, as soon as this location was chosen. Then, when you came up here, you and your men saw the casing and most likely gave this part of the roof a more cursory look.”

  “But they should have photographed the entire roof, not just the area in question.”

  Barty shrugged. “Taking a picture of something is fine, but you weren’t looking at them because you weren’t expecting anything.” He stood back up and let Jim do his thing, including taking close-up pictures.

  “How did you know?” Jim asked.

  “His brilliance.” Ideas were still churning in his head. His grandmother had told him that he had a brain like a computer and that sometimes he had to let it do its work. He should never feel pressured to give an answer he wasn’t ready for. “He’s using misdirection to his advantage.” Barty watched as Jim went through a number of emotions in front of him. Academically he knew what they meant, but it was the anger associated with embarrassment that Barty was able to understand most readily.

  “Should we go to the other locations?”

  “Yes, please.” There were theories rolling around that he wanted confirmation of before he vocalized them. They headed back to the stairs. “Why did you become a police officer?” Barty asked as they descended. He had always wanted to know why things happened and why people did the things they did. He never innately understood other people. He knew his childhood was unique and strange—the kids at school had made that plain enough to him—and being a psychologist, he was always asking why. That was the primary question they asked when it came to why people commit violence against each other.

  “That’s a change in subject,” Jim said.

  “Not really. We’re investigating a crime. It’s a natural question.” Barty continued down the stairs, waiting for Jim’s answer.

  “I wanted to help people.” Jim stopped and turned to him, and Barty blinked and tried to mimic his look as he waited. “That’s the bullshit answer.” He turned away, and they continued back to the ground. “I think I picked it at first because it would piss my family off something awful. They had a million expectations for me. My brother is a pediatric oncologist, and my younger sister, who’s brilliant and finished high school at the same time I did, is a leading economist at Templeton. I wanted to go my own way.”

  “You thought you couldn’t compete, so you didn’t,” Barty said matter-of-factly. “It’s typical of middle children. You need to carve out a place of your own. But you could have done that in a lot of ways—why law enforcement?” People usually closed off to him at about this point, and Barty had been told numerous times that he needed to learn when to back away. But once his curiosity was raised, it was hard for him to turn it off. Besides, there was something about this man, this mind, that intrigued him, and he wasn’t sure why.

  “Are you a middle child?” Jim asked, and Barty stared back as they stood at the base of the stairwell.

  “Yes. But I was like your sister. I graduated from high school ahead of my older sister. I think she was happy to have me gone from the school for her senior year.” He rarely had people ask questions of him or about him. It felt like Jim had gotten the better of him somehow. He knew give-and-take was important in any relationship, but he rarely shared things about himself. To him, it was like giving away something that could be used against him. “Again, why law enforcement?”

  “I think I always wanted to be a cop. I used to watch them on television, and they were always doing these heroic and interesting things. I was good with guns, and I enjoy unraveling puzzles. It seemed like a good fit, and when I went to the academy, I found out I was right.” Jim pushed open the door, and they went back to the street. “I need to remind this owner to get a panic alarm on this door so it can be closed to the outside.”

  That made sense to Barty, and he waited while Jim made his call. He seemed satisfied with the answer he received, and they continued on. Jim drove them a block down the street to the next location. But any indications that might have remained at one time were gone. Still, Barty got a good view of the scene and played it out in his mind. He saw a shadowy shooter, away from the edge of the roof, lining up his shot, taking it, and then leaving within seconds.

  “Is there a way for you to match a bullet you take from a body with the exact shell it came from?” Barty asked, his eyes still closed as he watched the shooter go through his motions in his mind.

  “I don’t know. There could be. I need to ask. Why?”

  “Okay. The shooter will scout out locations, and he doesn’t want to leave any indication of himself. Except he does no matter what, and he knows that. So he misdirects you, and he does that by placing the casing at the scene. But what if it isn’t the casing he just used? What if it was placed there when he scouted it? There would be no rush—no one would be looking for him because there hasn’t been a shooting. He’d also have tested his access and egress.”

  “So he’d carry a shell casing with him and place it when he scouted?” Jim said, and Barty nodded.

  “Maybe the shell casing from the shot he took yesterday will be the one he places at his next location,” Barty offered. “Maybe it’s already there now.”

  “Do we need to search for it?” Jim said, and Barty gently touched his arm.

  “No. We need to find a way of looking for it without him knowing we’re looking for it.” Barty’s head was ringing. He knew he was on the right idea. Everything sang to him, and that only happened when he knew he was right and he’d made some kind of breakthrough. Behavior was often like a puzzle, and he might have solved a piece of this one.

  “But if it’s there, we need to find it. Then we’ll know his next location.”

  “If you find it and he knows you’ve found it…. This is chess, remember? He’ll be watching the next location somehow. If he’s chosen it, then it’s something he values, so it’s probably watched and looked after somehow. No, we have to play his game and not let him know we’re playing. So far we’ve been within his rules, but if we disturb some of his planning, he’s going to know we’re on to him and he’ll change the rules.”

  “How do you know all this?” Jim asked.

  Barty ignored that question as another notion took root. “Did your people check for cameras at the locations?”

  “Why?”

  “He’s going to watch them somehow,” Barty said as his thoughts continued. He shook his head slowly as a clearer picture emerged. “They’d already be removed. He’d take them away when he arrived to take his shot. He wouldn’t leave any visual evidence of him actually shooting someone that could accidentally be recorded.” He adjusted the picture in his mind, and it made perfect sense. The shooter removed the camera, set up his equipment, took his shot, policed his brass, and left, redirecting them to a different part of the roof. “Can we look at the others?” Barty asked, and Jim took him to the other locations. They reinforced what Barty thought, but unfortunately didn’t provide him with any other insight, so they went back to the station.

  Jim was on the phone most of the time, presumably with the lab to see if they could help confirm any of Barty’s information. He was pretty pleased that he’d been able to help like that. It didn’t always work that way. Getting into the head of another person was never easy, and sometimes it wasn’t possible. There had to be a connection, something that allowed the researcher special insight into the subject in order for that to happen. Barty had heard of a researcher who suffered
from bipolar disorder, and he was able to gain incredible insight into others with the same affliction and wrote some brilliant papers on the subject.

  “Do you want to look over the documentation again to see if anything else comes to mind?” Jim asked, but Barty shook his head.

  “There’s nothing in there I haven’t seen. I already have it all, unless there’s something new.”

  “I take it you have a great memory,” Jim said.

  “I never forget anything. Good and bad—it’s all inside waiting for me.”

  “And I bet sometimes when you’re at low energy, the containers around the bad become weak, and then….”

  Barty nodded. “You understand.”

  “Some of the things I’ve seen, I wish I could throw the memories away, wipe them clean so I’d never see those images again or have my entire outlook colored by them.” Jim sat in one of the chairs, and Barty took the one next to him. “But I can’t.”

  “No. They’re always there. The pain of losing the people closest to you.” He wasn’t sure why he’d said that. Barty rarely shared pieces of his personal life with others. “Of course, there are also the good things that don’t go away. I remember winning an award when I was in the second grade. I was very happy, and Nana was there to see me get it.” Of course, there was a reason Nana was there instead of his mom and dad, but he kept the door firmly closed on those memories, at least for now.

  “Yeah. I have a good memory too, but I doubt it’s as sharp as yours.” Jim stood. “Wait here a minute.” He left the room and returned with another man. “This is Captain Westin. Barty Halloran. We reviewed the various shooter locations, and he has some real potential insight.”

  They shook hands, with Barty nearly wincing at the strength in the captain’s grip. He wasn’t as large as Jim but had an intensity that seemed to vibrate off him.

  “He thinks the casing could have been planted in advance when he scouted the locations,” Jim said.

  “So we need to search rooftops?”