by G. K. Parks
I’d seen the writing on the wall. Jablonsky didn’t say anything yet, but he didn’t have to. Since my reinstatement, Lucca had been assisting in a support role on my cases. He was an analyst by trade. He worked a desk, helped on investigations, and compiled data. He was also one of the junior members of the team, and he wasn’t partnered with anyone. He was still learning the ropes in the field, and I was two years behind on recent advancements in proper protocol and procedure. We were a match made in heaven, but after my last partner was killed in the line of duty, I made it abundantly clear that I worked alone. And whenever the powers that be ordered us to work together, I knew Mark wouldn’t see any merit to my protests, but if Lucca refused to work with me, that would solve the problem. Plus, he seemed like a good guy, so there was no reason he should risk physical peril by being in such close proximity to me and my bad luck.
“Let’s call it a personality clash,” I said. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to read me in, Agent Lucca.”
Two
The case being heard the day of the shooting involved numerous armed robberies that spanned the tri-state area. Because the defendant, Jeremy Hunter, had committed felonies across state lines, his case became a federal matter and one that the federal prosecutor had to deal with. However, Hunter was small potatoes. He had priors for larceny, armed robbery, B&E, and assault charges, but nothing extreme enough to warrant intervention by an unknown shooter. Plus, Weaver’s death did nothing to exonerate Hunter. More than likely, whoever pulled the trigger did so on his own accord and not to benefit Hunter.
“Weaver’s schedule is easy to find,” Lucca said. “Just look at the court docket. There’s always a case being heard that involves a federal prosecutor since it is the federal courthouse. If someone hung around long enough, they could easily figure out which courtrooms and cases Weaver was trying.”
“Are you sure the shooter wanted to kill Weaver specifically and not any AUSA he could find?” I asked.
“It’s unlikely this was a random killing. There are easier ways to gun down federal prosecutors.” Lucca made a fair point, and I decided now wasn’t a good time to question the reasonableness that Weaver was the intended target. It made sense since he had enemies, and he was dead. “Our forensic accountants are digging through Hunter’s financials. We’ve subpoenaed Hunter’s phone records, but I don’t expect either to point to a smoking gun, so to speak.”
“What about Weaver’s enemies?”
“You’ll need a new pack of markers,” Lucca replied, flipping to the last few pages inside the folder. “These are the individuals he’s put away. Keep in mind, that doesn’t take into account their family members, friends, or affiliates.” He pushed the stapled list closer. “Why don’t you start with A?”
“Oh, I can tell you what starts with A.”
“Aren’t you clever?”
“Play nice boys and girls,” Jablonsky said, entering the room and dropping additional files and photos on top of our growing pile of intel. He surveyed the room, recognizing my methodology scrawled across the whiteboard. “Come to any conclusions yet, Parker?”
“Courthouse security was never breached. Marshal Dobson’s measures are tight.”
“Okay, I want a report and your notes on my desk before the end of the day. The sooner we clear that off our plate, the faster we’ll be able to focus on finding our killer,” Mark said, grabbing a cup of coffee out of the carrier and taking a seat across from Lucca. “How much progress have you made, Eddie?”
“I’ve compiled a list of Weaver’s work-related enemies. Agent Parker was about to begin assessing the likelihood of each individual’s involvement," Lucca said, satisfied with himself for passing off the grunt work. Glaring in his direction, I bit my tongue while he filled Mark in on everything he’d already told me. “I’ll start digging into Weaver’s personal life. Surely, that will result in a few more names to consider.”
“Very good,” Mark said, dismissing Lucca, who left the conference room and returned to his desk. “So,” he swiveled sideways in the chair and folded his hands over his gut, “the tech team is searching every inch of the area for evidence. We might get lucky and find fingerprints or DNA. In the meantime, I’ve made a few calls to get access to the neighboring buildings’ security cam footage. In a couple of hours, we should have the tapes, and hopefully, it’ll lead to an ID.”
“So why did you tell Lucca to continue working on a suspect list?”
Mark shrugged. “There’s no guarantee any of these things will pan out. It’s important to always be prepared. How many times have I told you that?”
“If I had a nickel.” Sifting through the information, I found the facts overwhelming. Too many possible suspects, no clear motive, and a million unanswered questions remained. Putting my head in my hands, I took a few deep breaths. “What should I do first?”
“Start with the security assessment. Once that’s completed, you can leave for the day. You’ve been at this since five a.m.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did you even go home last night?”
“Yes, I went home. You can call Martin and ask.”
“God,” Mark shook his head, “I keep forgetting you moved in with Marty. What’s it been? Three weeks?”
“Something like that.” I rolled my eyes. “But seriously, I have no problem working late.”
“Yeah,” he snorted, “you never do.”
Marshal Dobson was meticulous. His records were organized and tabbed, making my job a million times easier, even copies of the maintenance and upkeep for the metal detectors were included. He didn’t screw up, or if he did, he went to great pains to cover his ass. Unfortunately, even with superb planning and perfect execution, this still happened.
After copying the relevant information for our records, I typed out the rest of my report in favor of clearing Dobson of negligence and any wrongdoing and hit print. Jablonsky wasn’t in his office when I went to drop off the paperwork, so I left the items and returned to my desk. It was barely after four o’clock; surely, I could spend a few more hours assisting on identifying the shooter.
“Any new developments?” I asked, rolling across the room to Lucca’s workspace. He was situated directly across from me, another sign that the two of us would eventually partner up.
“Oh, so you ran backgrounds and alibis and checked off every name that I gave you?” His eyes darted briefly from the computer monitor to me. “Because I’d still assume that whoever wanted Weaver dead is somewhere on that list. If it were personal, the killer would have found an easier venue to plan the strike.”
“I don’t disagree, but you’d rather rake me over the coals than give me a nudge in the right direction? You do realize that this investigation isn’t about either of us. It’s about putting a man to rest and giving his family closure.” Lucca pulled his hands away from the keyboard and leaned back in the chair. Suddenly, I had his full and undivided attention. “The more time we waste, the greater the chances are that this son of a bitch will elude us. Do you really want that to happen?”
“Wow,” he sucked some air in between his teeth, “how did I miss that?”
My eyes darted around the room. “Miss what?”
“You.” He shook his head and went back to typing something into the computer. “Check your inbox. I just sent you the updated list. It’s color-coded based on threat potential.” I slid back across the walkway to my desk, keying in the password to access the online drop box. “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks,” I said, distracted by the information.
As I accessed records for the Department of Corrections to rule out those currently incarcerated, I shot a brief glance at Lucca. He was studying me so intensely his forehead might become permanently creased. The polite thing to do would be for him to look away, but he continued to stare. Returning to work, I fought to ignore the weight of his gaze.
“Who would have thought you actually give a shit about the victims?” His words came as a surprise, but I didn’t respond.
Instead, I pretended I didn’t hear him and continued working through the names highlighted in red. A few were dead. Some were in prison, and the ones that weren’t would need to provide a solid alibi. After knocking the red names down to a couple dozen, I stretched in the chair and reached for the phone.
“Don’t even think about it, Parker,” Jablonsky warned. “I took your assessment under advisement concerning Marshal Dobson. The courthouse appears secure. He and his team were careful. I’ll pass our findings off to Director Kendall, and he’ll inform the Marshal Service in the morning. In the meantime, you’re off-the-clock. So go home. Someone else can check into our ex-cons’ alibis.”
“Fine.”
Collecting my belongings and a copy of the suspect list, I dutifully took the elevator to the underground parking garage, unlocked my car, and circled through the city, taking a different route home than any of the ones I had already used in the past week. Some called it paranoia. I called it careful. And now that I was living with James Martin, his safety was my top priority, so I’d take every measure imaginable to be extra cautious.
Martin’s compound was on the outskirts of the city. His four story estate came with a state-of-the-art security system, numerous guest suites, a wicked home gym, an Infinity pool, and all the premium channels a girl could ever want. Too bad I still wasn’t certain that I wanted to live here. There was always a downside, and this one was a doozy.
After resigning from the OIO two years ago, I endeavored to a life of security consulting and private investigation. My first job was as James Martin's bodyguard. That event culminated in exchanging fire with a team of mercenaries inside the very house in which I now lived. Although to be fair, my apartment, which I adamantly refused to give up, had been the location of some pretty horrific scenes as well. Maybe I was just cursed. Unfortunately, when I returned to my previous career, concessions had to be made in my private life, and one of those was cohabitation. However, if a particular assignment or investigation proved to be unreasonably risky, then I’d stay at my old place for the duration. This was a new experience for us, and clearly, we still had a few kinks to work out.
Once the garage door closed and the security system was reactivated, I took my copy of the current case file upstairs to the second floor guest suite. The suite was practically as large as my one bedroom apartment, minus the kitchen and dining area. The closet and dresser were full of my clothing, and the bathroom contained my toiletries. I noticed the addition of a desk in the corner and a corkboard and whiteboard mounted to the wall beside it. Martin must have spent the morning redecorating.
Slipping my credentials free from my belt, I placed them in the top desk drawer and shrugged out of my shoulder holster. Normally, I’d keep my firearm in the nightstand, but since my back-up nine millimeter now had a permanent place in Martin’s bedroom, or rather our bedroom, this one could stay here and keep my notes and theories company. Realizing the time, I decided to review the current information on the case once more. For some reason, I worked better secluded from others. It gave the voices in my head free range without interruption by actual living people. Snickering at my own insanity, I spread the information across the surface of the desk, picked up a few pins, and organized the crime scene photos and my notes into a timeline on the board.
When I was through dissecting the file, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Something didn’t coalesce. What the hell was it? Narrowing my eyes, I reached across for my laptop and sprawled out on the mattress. The facts didn’t fit the crime. A double homicide due to a single bullet from a long-range sniper rifle sounded more like the Kennedy assassination than someone intent on murdering an Assistant U.S. Attorney. Too bad there was no grassy knoll that would lead straight to a modern day Oswald. Although, if conspiracy theorists were to be believed, then Oswald was framed, and I wasn’t in the business of arresting innocent bystanders. Since Lucca and Jablonsky were narrowing the suspect list, I conducted a people search on Weaver, followed by an internet search. Deep dark secrets tended to surface at the most inopportune times, and with the advent of social networking and smart phones, a person’s worst moments were often photographed or filmed and appeared on the internet for all to see.
Hundreds of pages worth of hits surfaced, and I rubbed my eyes. Why did our dead AUSA have such a common name? Entering a few more terms to narrow the parameters, I tried again. The hours passed without me noticing as I skimmed through law review articles, court dockets, pro bono cases, news stories, and op-ed pieces. None of it was useful. Weaver was a normal guy.
Just as I began to sort through public records for property and financials, my phone rang. “What do you want, Lucca?” I asked, the annoyance bleeding into my words.
“Jeremy Hunter’s not involved. The forensic accountants cleared his bank history, and I personally examined his recent correspondence. It wasn’t him, like I said.”
“So you called to gloat?”
“Why do you have to be so difficult? We’re on the same team. I was simply informing you of our latest development.”
“I’m off-the-clock. Leave a sticky note on my desk next time.”
“Jablonsky said you couldn’t comprehend what off-the-clock meant.” Lucca’s voice was practically a snarl. With any luck, my brilliant plan was working. “He asked that I phone and inform you that we’ve gained access to a ton of surveillance footage, and the tech department is analyzing it now.”
“Okay. Were they hoping I’d volunteer to make a coffee run?”
“No,” Lucca paused, taking in a breath in order to contain his animosity, “and don’t expect any more favors.” Before I could say another word, he hung up.
“Tomorrow’s going to be so much fun,” I muttered, dropping the phone on the nightstand and continuing my research.
Unfortunately, now I was pissed. Eddie Lucca had annoyed me. What was even more irritating was the knowledge that I deserved his attitude and comments. He was a newcomer. He didn’t know me, my history, or the reason for my reticence against working side by side with another member of the team. Furthermore, I didn’t want to get to know him because once I did, things would change, and I was scared. My biggest fear was losing someone I was close to, and since Mark insisted that I couldn’t control everything or stop bad things from happening, my only other option was to make sure I didn’t get close to anyone, particularly on the job.
Rubbing my face, I shook off the pointless emotional musing and stared at the computer screen. “Who were you close to?” I asked Stan Weaver’s photograph. It didn’t respond, and I shifted gears, pulling up marriage records. He was divorced. His ex-wife remarried seven years ago. They didn’t have any children, and from the quick scan of his phone records and e-mail accounts, they didn’t speak. That didn’t mean she had anything to do with his death. His current wife was a dental hygienist. From what I’d gathered, they seemed happy. No outstanding debts, a lack of overt threats, and a nice house in the suburbs. It looked like he was living the American dream or would have been if he had a white picket fence and two and a half kids. His parents were elderly, in their late eighties, and resided in an assisted living community in southern Florida. He had two brothers and a sister. They were scattered across the country with their own careers and families. On paper, he didn’t fit the profile for a murder victim. Then again, there wasn’t a profile for murder victims.
Flopping onto my back, I stared at the upside down view of the information I’d stuck on the corkboard. Something was missing. The most obvious motive for killing Weaver was his job, but his work records were at the office. Due to the sensitive nature of court cases, a lot of information had been redacted. The OIO had been granted clearance to check into most of it but probably not all of it, and like Lucca pointed out, Weaver was killed in a courtroom. If the shooter had personal knowledge of Weaver in a more intimate setting, then anywhere else would have been an easier place to strike. If the motive had been personal, then William Briscoe, the unlucky
juror, would still be alive. Collateral damage was the worst, and my stomach clenched at the thought.
Digging deeper into Weaver’s personal life wouldn’t get us any closer to identifying the murderer, so I opened a new tab and did a brief people search for William Briscoe. He was widowed and had two grown children. Closing my laptop, I couldn’t read anymore. The government required law-abiding citizens to partake in the jury process, and that inevitably led to a man’s death. Obviously, no one ever expected things like this to happen. It was just a fluke. Perhaps if he hadn’t died in the jury box, he might have been struck by lightning, but I didn’t buy into that fate mumbo jumbo. The person responsible would be caught. Stan Weaver’s and William Briscoe’s relatives were counting on it, and I was counting on it.
I shut my eyes and rested my forehead against my folded arms. I didn’t enjoy feeling helpless, but the investigation was in its infancy. Until enough data and evidence were collected, there was little to do. Considering the only other piece of the puzzle, I inhaled deeply, lifted the lid of my laptop, and accessed the government employee database for Marshal Dobson. He looked clean. And I didn’t doubt the conclusions I reached in my assessment, but it never hurt to double-check.
Lou Dobson’s record contained commendations, gushing personal references, and an airtight plan for the courthouse. Entering dates that corresponded to his previous work history, I waited for the page to load, but I suspected he had been just as meticulous at his prior posts. As he said this morning, nothing like this had ever happened before. None of his earlier postings were marked by security breaches or his shortcomings. The guy was a frigging star, just like that stupid badge.
Three
“So what do we have?” I asked. My eyes were trained on the updated boards in the conference room. It was eight a.m., and the team had spent a good portion of the night running down names and checking into alibis.