Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  Lucca tossed a disinterested glance in my direction and went back to reading through Weaver’s case file. The techs ignored me, continuing to scrub the surveillance feed. From the notes and printouts, our unsub was male, Caucasian, and looked like a Yankees fan, based on the cap he wore. Either that or he might have been an incognito movie star. He wore the baseball cap low on his head with the bill pulled down to cover his face. He also donned a pair of dark sunglasses, a windbreaker, and jeans. He carried a gym bag which probably held his sniper rifle and scope, and he entered the adjacent office building like he owned the place.

  The building itself contained offices for attorneys, accountants, brokers, and other professional types. It would have been easy enough to gain access to the building and exit on the appropriate floor, but he either needed a solid plan in order to have some alone time or he had an accomplice. I skimmed the list of potential suspects, but most of the names were crossed out.

  Clearing my throat, I focused on the nearest agent. “Has our unknown subject been spotted on the footage prior to the day of the shooting?” I asked, tapping the desk next to him.

  He held up a finger as if my question was too much of an inconvenience and I should wait. Rolling my shoulders, I glared at Lucca. Whatever he said to the rest of the team made me persona non grata. Resisting the urge to stoop to his level, I grabbed my copy of the information and left the conference room.

  “How’d things go with the Marshal Service?” I asked Mark.

  “Dobson’s cleared as far as we’re concerned, but Director Kendall said that Dobson’s superiors are conducting their own assessment. It’ll be a few days before the marshal is back at work.” He skimmed through the paperwork that covered my desk. “Any particular reason Lucca’s vying to get you removed from this case?” Jablonsky always knew what was going on, even if he occasionally pretended to be clueless.

  “The boy scout doesn’t like me.” I shrugged, keying in a few names to get mug shots brought up for the remaining suspects on our list. Maybe I could match some stats faster than the facial recognition software.

  “You should probably stop calling him a boy scout.” He shook his head. “I know what you’re doing, and you need to cut it out.”

  There was no point denying it, so I went with the next best response. “Prove it.”

  “I don’t have to prove it,” Mark spat. “I gave you an order, and you will follow it.”

  “When did the OIO get drafted into the military?”

  “Watch yourself, Parker. I get it. But you are this close to being insubordinate, and I’m not above sticking a formal reprimand in your file. You don’t have to make friends, but you have to be civil. The men and women in this office have to be willing to watch your back, and you’re making that increasingly difficult. If this keeps up, I will have you chained to the desk while we wait for another psych eval. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Good. Now go apologize for whatever dumbass thing you said to Eddie, and let’s get back to work. This isn’t kindergarten, and I’m not some schoolhouse marm.” He nudged his head in the direction of the conference room, and I stood. “We are not having this conversation again.”

  Dutifully, I returned to work. Lucca was scribbling some information next to my notations on the board. Resting my hips against the table, I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at his perfectly formed letters. He probably had a merit badge for penmanship too. It took some effort to refrain from saying as much.

  When he turned around, he looked surprised to see me back in the conference room. His eyes shifted to Jablonsky leaning over one of the technician’s shoulders to study whatever was on the computer screen. Obviously, I wasn’t benched, much to Lucca’s disappointment.

  “May I speak to you outside, Agent Lucca?” I asked.

  “Really, Parker?” He blinked a few times. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” He led the way out of the conference room and back to his desk. “What is it now?”

  “Look, we both have a role to play in this investigation, and I’d like to apologize for coming off as less than professional. From here on out, I will show you the utmost respect.”

  “I don’t want your respect. I just want to know why you left this job and how you were able to come back. You have a meritorious service award and a few commendations, but you’ve also been flagged for testing positive on a drug test. And the last case we worked involved drugs. So what am I missing? Have you been on the job the entire time but assigned to some deep cover thing? Did you fall down the rabbit hole and have to resign to get yourself cleaned up? Are you a liability?”

  My jaw clenched, and I blinked. Normally, I’d brush off the accusations with a gruff response, but Jablonsky insisted I apologize. So the words poured out before I could think of what would happen once they were uttered.

  “I’m not an addict, and I’ve never been on drugs. I resigned because I couldn’t stay here, but for some reason, I just can’t stay away.” I met his eyes. “And I am a liability, so you should keep your distance.”

  My gaze darted to my dead partner’s old desk, and the void in my chest ripped open, the pain fresh and debilitating just like it had been that horrible day two years ago. I thought I had moved past this, but Lucca’s confrontation mixed with a lack of sleep threatened to reduce me to a quivering, emotional wreck. Biting the inside of my lip, I covered my mouth to hide the trembling in my chin. Pull it together, the voice in my head insisted.

  Lucca’s eyes went wide, and he put a hand on my arm. I flinched at the contact, but he held firm. “Sit down, Alexis. Put your head between your knees and breathe deeply.”

  Oh, god. Why did I have to lose it in the middle of the office? He rubbed circles between my shoulder blades until my breathing stabilized. After a few deep breaths, I set my jaw and sat up straight. We made eye contact, and I expected him to run off to report my unstable behavior to Jablonsky or Kendall in order to make sure I stayed benched. Instead, he knelt to my level and brushed a few loose strands of hair away from my face.

  “Whatever secrets you have, I’ll keep safe, just between you and me,” he said. “I’m around if you need to talk it out.” Then he scooped the file off the desk and returned to the conference room like nothing happened.

  “Fuck.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, took another deep breath, and went down the hallway to the elevator. I couldn’t stay inside this horrible building for another minute.

  I was halfway across town when I dialed Jablonsky. From his tone, it was apparent Lucca hadn’t spilled the beans, and I wasn’t sure if I was thankful or alarmed. After telling Mark that I was checking out a lead and would update him by the end of the day, I rerouted to the courthouse and parked outside.

  I couldn’t afford to lose it again. I’d only been back on the job for three months, but I had been fine for those three months. What the hell was causing this mental turmoil? Chalking it up to too many sleepless nights, an overdose of caffeine, and the shock of Lucca’s questions, I forced the current investigation to take hold of my wayward thoughts. I needed a direction, and climbing out of the car, I set off toward the neighboring building. If our shooter could go inside like he owned the place, then I could do the same damn thing.

  Smiling at the security officer stationed in the lobby, I continued on a path to the elevator banks. According to HRT’s report, the shooter had been on the twentieth floor. Jablonsky had already sent our crime scene unit to collect evidence, but it never hurt to check things out in person. The elevator stopped twice on my ride up, and the professionals in suits didn’t even bat an eye in my direction. Would that have been different if I was dressed in casual wear? I’d left the office too quickly this morning to know if the gunman had taken the stairs or the elevator to his perch, so I had no way of knowing who he might have encountered on his way in and out of the building.

  When the door opened on the proper level, I stepped out into a large, open expanse. A directory on the wall in
dicated an accountant’s office, an insurance company, a chiropractor, and several empty slots. Common sense dictated that one of these barren offices must have housed the sniper’s nest. Glancing out the nearest window, I realized the courthouse wasn’t in view, so I reversed direction, moving to the southeast corner.

  The door to the vacant office space was sealed with crime scene tape, and I sliced through the strip of tape and turned the knob. But the door didn’t budge. Deciding that my credentials were good for something, I went down the hallway to the nearest occupied space. As I sauntered into the chiropractor’s office, the receptionist smiled warmly.

  “Do you have an appointment, miss?” she asked, ready to key my name into the computer.

  “Actually,” I held out my identification, “do you think you could get someone from building security to come up here with a key for that office down the hall?”

  She stared as her mind processed through my request. “I’m sorry, hun, but building security doesn’t have access to the offices. They’re privately owned.”

  “Who owns the one at the far end of the hall?”

  “That used to be Clayton Financial, but they moved out ten months ago. No one’s occupied it since.” She rummaged through the drawer until she found a flyer. “The real estate agency had an open house to try to attract renters two weeks ago. As far as I know, no one was interested, but they had some great cookies. I snuck over during my break to check it out. They had a nice spread. Cold cut platter, finger sandwiches, cookies, cake. It was lovely.”

  A patient came in, and I stepped to the side so she could take his information while I considered her words. When she was finished, I flipped through the content on my phone, finding a photo of the unsub from the security footage.

  “Do you recognize this man?” I asked.

  She took the phone, narrowing her eyes at the screen. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure.” Her brow furrowed. “What’s going on, miss? The police have been crawling all over this building for the last few days. Did something happen?”

  “Nothing to worry about.” I took my phone back and gave her a reassuring look. “If you remember seeing anyone strange lurking around here, give me a call.” I handed her my card and went to the door.

  Since building security couldn’t let me inside that office, I’d have to let myself in. After checking the doorknob again to make sure it wasn’t stuck, I removed my lock picks and set to work. The cheap lock popped ten seconds later, and I cautiously entered the room.

  Fingerprint powder coated a few areas of the room, and tripods holding laser sights to calculate angles and trajectories remained. Other than that, the room was empty. It was nothing more than a large, rectangular space with half a dozen floor to ceiling windows. The window closest to the corner had a six inch circle cut out of the glass near the floor. The space had been boarded up by one of the techs in order to ensure outside elements didn’t contaminate the scene. No one wanted a room full of pigeons or a swarm of bees taking up residence inside.

  A clear view of the courthouse was visible from the window, and I wished I had binoculars or a scope. Our shooter must have laid flat on the floor, his high velocity rifle propped up to steady the shot. How long did he wait for AUSA Weaver to step into his line of sight? Did he realize Briscoe would impede the shot? How certain could he have been that the bullet would travel this distance, punch through the courthouse window, and pass through a man before killing another one? There were a hundred other ways to plan a hit, and this wouldn’t have been the one I chose. The only clear advantage for using this location was the ability to make a clean getaway. No one inside the courtroom would have realized where the shot came from or think to stop anyone from leaving, at least not immediately.

  Studying the slight scrapes on the tile, I took a few photos in case the crime techs were lazy. This had been our sniper’s position. From the remnants of fingerprint powder that covered the floor, they attempted to find prints, but I didn’t know if they did. I stepped backward, surveying the spot. Sneak inside, assemble the rifle, patiently wait hours or even days, pull the trigger, pack up, and escape. Leaving the room, I locked the door, took off my gloves, tucked them into my jacket pocket, and considered the accessibility of the stairwell. I had taken the elevator up, so I might as well take the stairs down.

  The doorway opened into a cinderblock expanse. The paint was old and peeling, and the air smelled stale. Just a typical unused stairwell. I didn’t see any surveillance cameras as I descended flight after flight. About ten flights down, the elevator started to look much more appealing, and by the time I reached the bottom, I decided that the treadmill would be unnecessary this evening.

  Opening the bottom door, I expected to come out in the lobby of the building. Instead, I was in a narrow hallway. To the right was a door marked maintenance, and to the left was the lobby. Deciding to perform my due diligence and check out the entire area, I went right and tugged on the thick door.

  Circuit breakers, pipes, and other necessary mechanical functions for the building were inside. But something in the far corner caught my eye, and I stepped deeper into the room. My hand automatically came to rest inside my opened jacket, unsnapping the hook on my shoulder holster. I glanced down at the gym bag and nudged it with my shoe. After checking the area for signs of life, I put my gloves back on, knelt down, and unzipped the bag.

  “Have you made any progress on identifying the weapon used?” I asked when Jablonsky answered my call.

  “There wasn’t much left of the bullet. Ballistics is narrowing down possible makes based on caliber.”

  “Well, you might want to send another team to finish cataloguing the evidence. I just found the gun.” After giving my location, I stepped away from the gym bag, cognizant of the surrounding area.

  Our shooter must have taken the stairs down, deposited the weapon here just in case he was stopped or questioned, and continued out of the building. For whatever the reason, no one bothered to look in here, and until someone arrived, I was stuck babysitting a murder weapon. How often did maintenance come into this room? Could the shooter work inside the building or have an accomplice who did? It would explain how he gained access to an empty office and entered and exited without detection.

  Making a mental note to check into building employees and every individual and company that had an office within this high-rise, I resisted the urge to pace. Instead, I leaned against the wall, checked my watch a dozen times, and hoped that the occasional scurrying sound I heard wasn’t due to rats. My plan to avoid getting stuck inside my own head wasn’t working now that I was stuck inside a maintenance room, but thankfully, I had more important thoughts to occupy my mind.

  “Agent Parker,” Lucca called, leading our crime scene unit inside, “did you really find our smoking gun?”

  “It’s been a few days, so it isn’t smoking anymore. But I think so.”

  He looked at me for a moment. “I can take it from here.”

  “Great,” I went to the door, “and before you leave, send someone upstairs to reseal the door to the office our shooter used. I cut through the tape in order to look around.”

  “Anything else? Maybe I should pick up your dry cleaning while I’m at it.” His words might have been snarky, but his tone was playful. Either Lucca was using kid gloves, or for some unbeknownst reason, my earlier meltdown had made him warm to me. Crap.

  “My dry cleaning won’t be ready until Tuesday but thanks anyway.”

  Four

  I stared at the blinking cursor on the screen. We found our murder weapon, a Remington 700. It was eerily similar to the M24, the version the military and police used, and it caused a sinking feeling in my stomach. The weapon was devoid of prints. Our lab rats even went so far as to swab the sight and trigger for skin cells, but nothing conclusive was found. A few of our suspects that had recently been paroled were questioned, but so far, we’d hit nothing but dead ends.

  My desk phone rang, and I leaned away from the ke
yboard. After conducting background checks on the building’s security personnel and those individuals and companies that owned office space inside the building, I had nothing new to report. No one who worked security had a criminal record, and the most heinous crimes I found on any of the renters were a few nonviolent misdemeanors. So I remained at my desk, attempting to come up with a new angle and different parameters that would lead to the guilty party, but brilliance failed to strike. Nothing panned out.

  “Parker,” I answered, glancing around to see if any of my fellow agents looked like they might have a lead, but they looked as bored and clueless as I felt.

  “Your victim’s autopsy is complete, but there are a few things you might want to see.”

  “I’m on my way.” Disconnecting, I went to Mark’s office and knocked. He looked up and gestured inside. “The medical examiner’s office just called. They found something strange. Do you want me to check it out?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. We can spare you for a while.” He glanced into the bullpen. “Where’s Lucca? Did he come back yet?”

  “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him since he procured the weapon.”

  “Okay.” He jerked his chin at the door. “It looks like you’re on your own. Get to it, Parker.”

  When I arrived at the medical examiner’s office, I was escorted into the morgue. Dead bodies were never a pleasant sight, and it was difficult to discern if the sudden chill that traveled down my spine was from the refrigerated air or the smell of antiseptic and death that filled the room, clinging to my hair and clothing. Today wasn’t the day to be reminded of mortality, but I forced my brain to focus. The doctor offered a friendly smile and went to the drawers, opening one on the second shelf and rolling out the body.

  “When he first came in, the bruises weren’t nearly as pronounced, and due to their position, it was hard to determine that it wasn’t from blood pooling internally on account of the gunshot wound. My assistant wasn’t sure, so he ordered a complete panel of x-rays,” Dr. Janice Cole said, pointing to the upper torso beneath the bullet stippling. She flipped through the file, extracting a set of films and sticking them on the lightboard. “As you can see, these are just your victim’s most recent set of injuries.”