by Dan Alatorre
The lieutenant tapped the microphone clipped to his collar. A poomp sounded through the room’s PA system, and the lieutenant straightened his tie. “Let’s get started.”
Davis stepped in front of the podium and pointed his remote control at the overhead projector. On the screen behind him, a row of blank bullet points appeared. He turned, aiming a laser pointer at the screen, and cleared his throat.
“We’ve had six shooting victims in a little more than twenty-four hours. Preliminary reports indicate that each was murdered in the same way—shot one time, from a distance.” He faced the gathered attendees. “If you’ve been anywhere near the station, you’ve heard the phones ringing off the hook, and if you live in Florida, you’ve seen the news. It’s wall-to-wall, nonstop coverage. People are in an uproar, and rightly so. We have a psycho out there on a killing spree. It’s that simple. And we—” he looked over the faces in the room “—are going to deploy every resource at our disposal and take this madman down. Fast.”
Pacing back and forth, Davis put his hands behind his back. “Now, it takes skill to kill with a rifle, especially at a distance. That takes a lot of people out of the equation. Our perp won’t end up being a drunk guy who lost his paycheck in a poker game and is out for revenge. It won’t be some jerk who had a fight with his wife. This is planned. Calculated. Cold. It’s a guy who—and I’ll let the doctor speak to this in a moment—but this is a heartless psychopath, and he will not stop until we stop him.” He faced the room again. “Let me make that last point absolutely crystal clear. Until we end this, it doesn’t end.”
Davis stared at the faces of the group.
No one spoke. No one moved.
No one even blinked.
The lieutenant wheeled around, a scowl on his face, and pointed the laser at the screen again. “Let’s see who we failed to serve and protect over the last thirty hours, shall we, ladies and gentlemen? Sirah Ruano was our first victim.” Clicking the pointer, Sirah’s name appeared on the screen. “A Hispanic woman, age thirty-four. She was murdered by a single shot to the upper torso, fired from a high-powered rifle, at a distance. Sirah’s offense? Why, she had the nerve to be reading a book at a bus stop near the mall.” He glared at the attendees and pointed at the screen. “This isn’t a drug deal gone bad in a dark alley in east Tampa, people. This is a nice neighborhood. Upscale restaurants. Luxury retailers.”
He clicked the laser pointer again. The second victim’s name appeared.
“Pete Castleman was a seventy-two-year-old retired carpenter. He was murdered in the parking lot of a Village Inn. A single shot to the back of the torso, fired from a high-powered rifle, at a distance.”
Leanna Lawrence-Ravala’s name came to the screen next.
“A twenty-five-year-old, stay-at-home mom who was . . .” His voice wavered. He stopped, lowering his face and shaking his head back and forth. “She was vacuuming her car at a Shell station. Murdered by a single shot just under the collarbone, fired by a high-powered rifle, from a distance.” He frowned at the audience. “By a show of hands, who wants to go tell Leanna’s kids that she won’t be coming home anymore? Anyone?”
The room was silent.
The next name appeared on the screen. “This failure to serve and protect,” the lieutenant said, “involved a cashier at Michaels craft store. But Amy Carlton was lucky. A bullet hit the storefront window while she was at the cash register. It missed her. It was fired from a high-powered rifle, from a distance.” Folding his arms, Davis glared at his officers. “By now you see the connection.”
The screen filled with names, in a row of bullet points.
“John ‘Bucky’ Buckman was mowing the lawn at a car dealership. Kedar Wallarah was pumping gas at a Mobil station. They were all shot in the chest region, from a distance, by a high-powered rifle.” Davis set the remote on the table, pushing open his suit coat and pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips. “Buckman took his bullet straight on, dead center. Wallarah’s was high on his upper back. It took half his neck off.” He raised his finger. “One shot took each victim down. One. That’s a sniper, people. A trained killer. The news reports got that right. In a few minutes, I’ll help the media get the rest right.” He stared at the group, tapping his finger to his chest. “West Tampa, part of our city, is this maniac’s kill zone—for now. But that’s going to change, as I’ll let Dr. Stevens explain momentarily.”
* * * * *
Carly eased the auditorium door open and stepped inside, hunching her shoulders as she nodded to Lieutenant Davis. “Excuse me, sir. I got here as fast as I could.” She headed for a seat in the audience.
“Right here, Detective.” Davis pointed to the table. “Front and center. You and the sergeant will be heading things up on this one—in here and with the press. The rest of you, copy everything to Sergeant Marshall and Detective Sanderson. You’ll get a text with their contact information.” Davis stood up straight. “Folks, no detail is too small. If a witness thinks it’s relevant that a flea sneezed, you send it to these two. Ignore nothing. Let them decide what’s important or unimportant for now. We’ll have a task force set up with the FBI by the end of the day.”
He took a step toward the table, but stopped. “Oh, and there’s one more thing. Victim seven just came in. Joshua Tennenbaum, age sixty. He was practicing his chip shot this morning at Countryway golf course. The pro shop manager said Tennenbaum simply dropped to the ground. Bled out all over the green. The preliminary report indicates he was murdered by a single gunshot to the chest, about an hour ago.” The lieutenant’s face was grim. “We are in the middle of a war, people. And it’s a war we need to win—fast. There will be no room for error on this. I want you on your toes, ears open, eyes alert. We are going to be working around the clock, and we are going to end this quickly. You can bet victim number eight is about to be discovered. Then number nine—maybe where your house is. So let’s get this maniac.”
He picked up the stack of papers, glancing through them. “Ballistics has matched two of the bullets. I expect the rest will match as well. Two witnesses said they saw a white van leaving the scene, describing the van as leaving quickly.” He glanced at the audience. “We have the IT department tracking down over three thousand white vans registered in and around the Greater Bay area. But nobody says our shooter kept his tags current, so don’t expect any help there.” Dropping the papers to the table, he looked at Carly. “Detective Sanderson?”
Carly sat upright. “Sir?”
“Would you like to say a few words?”
Carly’s stomach jumped. She stared out at the audience, her heart thumping. She put her hands on the table and inched upwards from her seat. “We, uh . . . we . . .” She cleared her throat, looking into a sea of faces. All eyes were on her. Taking small steps, she moved from behind the table. “We are, uh, looking . . . into, uh . . .”
“Detective.”
Carly peered at Lieutenant Davis. He gestured to the microphone mounted on the podium.
“Oh,” Carly winced. Tension gripped her gut as she walked to the podium. She reached up and took hold of the microphone, moving it downward. The creak of the gooseneck stand echoed over the PA system. Carly flinched at the loud noise. Leaning forward, she tried to speak without her voice quivering. Behind the podium, she massaged her hands together. “We are looking into what these victims may have in common. It appears to be nothing, or not much. They were almost all morning kills . . . various locations. Right now, it seems they just happened to be in the right place at the right time.” She cleared her throat again. The room was too quiet. Everyone was staring at her.
She licked her lips. “Our, uh, killer seems to be an accurate shot,” she said. “From a pretty good distance, too. The large caliber of such a round would indicate possible military training, or police—but we can’t rule out hunters, target shooters, sportsmen . . . The ages and occupations of the victims seems to be random as well, and unrelated to anything other than the fact that they we
re out in the morning.” She peered at Dr. Stevens. “I don’t know much about serial killers, ma’am, but I’d expect ours to change from morning kills simply because people will change their habits. On the way over here, I saw gas stations putting up tarps around the pumps—those blue plastic ones that everyone used on their roofs after the hurricane. They were hanging them from the tops of those big overhangs that go all the way across the pump area. When I was driving in, I saw the Shell station a few blocks from here had put one up. I called them while I was waiting in traffic. The manager said the news reports were describing how several victims were shot while pumping gas. No customers had come into his Shell station for hours. So, he ran out and bought a bunch of tarps, and was having his crew drape them so that customers wouldn’t be able to be seen while they fueled up.”
“This is what I’m talking about.” Davis pounded the table. “The citizens of Tampa don’t trust us, so they’re taking matters into their own hands. The tarps are a symptom. Soon, there’ll be bands of vigilantes roaming the streets looking for snipers. It’ll be chaos inside of a week.” He turned to Deshawn. “Sergeant, why were we so slow in getting the white van information?”
“I noticed the van was mentioned in the Ravala file,” Deshawn said. “As you said, they’re common, and the witnesses’ statement didn’t read as very decisive.”
“Was it mentioned in the other files?”
“Eventually. I reviewed the first three files. One witness was a firefighter on his way to work. Our officers didn’t get his statement until his shift ended. Another was a reading teacher who was too afraid to talk at the scene. She went to work, and they didn’t track her down until last night.”
Davis’ jaw dropped. “What!”
“It was a couple of glitches,” Deshawn said. “But we have the information now. I’ll tell the investigating officers to re-interview the witnesses and ask about the white van.”
“No, don’t.” The lieutenant turned to Carly. “Detective Sanderson, you do that. Talk to the witnesses personally. I don’t want street cops inadvertently suggesting things and promoting false memories. We don’t need any more glitches.”
Carly nodded. “I’m on it, sir.”
The lieutenant got to his feet, buttoning his suit coat. “So . . . to help us become aware of just what these types of sickos are like, I’ve asked Dr. Stevens to prepare some insights. She will be a part of the task force we’re putting together this afternoon. Doctor?”
Davis switched off his microphone as Carly returned to her chair. Dr. Stevens rose and advanced to the podium.
The lieutenant took the seat next to Carly, leaning toward her and lowering his voice. “See? I knew you could think on your feet—if you were properly prepped.”
She frowned. “I wouldn’t try that at the press conference, sir. You might be disappointed.”
“Don’t worry.” Davis smiled, straightening his tie and turning his eyes to the doctor. “I’ll handle whatever needs to be said at any press conferences.”
At the podium, Dr. Stevens adjusted the microphone and scanned the crowd. “I only have a few main points.” She peered down at the pages in her hands. “It’s important to note, serial killers almost never stop on their own. When it seems as if one has ceased killing, it’s usually because law enforcement has lost track of them. The dots don’t continue to be connected, and the media moves on to other stories. If a serial killer moves overseas, for example, or goes to prison, we in local law enforcement are limited in our ability to adequately pursue them. Some of these killers who attempt to enlist in the military may become hidden that way. But a serial killer does not stop. Not of their own accord. Even those who seem to go inactive for years—they almost always return to their prior ways.”
She gripped the podium. “How do we identify our serial killer? In some cases, it is the way in which the subject disposes of the evidence—perhaps using a garbage bag that’s tied shut in a particular way. For example, using multiple knots when one would suffice. Or a fancy knot to tie the victims, like a knot that only a sailor would know. That could be the unique identifier of a particular killer.” She waved at the names on the screen. “Here, in these cases, our killer has utilized a high-powered rifle, with shooting tactics one might compare to those of a trained military sniper—but do not let your guard down. Assume nothing, and you will overlook nothing. There will be other traits—unique markers—that tell us whether we have one killer, or two, or even three.”
A gasp went up from the crowd.
“Oh, yes.” The doctor adjusted her glasses. “It is indeed possible for two marksmen to demonstrate the same degree of accuracy. And for others to mimic it, should they so desire. That is why we must, as the lieutenant said, move fast—before a mentally vulnerable copycat can learn and adopt the pattern. You will get calls about everything. A cat up a tree will now be the sniper. The new garbage man will now be the sniper. You must treat each and every piece of information as if it is a solid lead—and as if it is the only lead we will get. Some of them will be the parts of the puzzle that make the difference.”
She slid her glasses further up onto her nose. “Our subject, as it is with all serial killers, will be almost unable to resist leaving their specific identifiers. It is their calling card, their intentional way to secretly revel in their twisted game. It is intentional, sometimes ritualistic. Occasionally, it is their way of showing their superiority over the police they wish to elude.”
“For many serial killers, the experience of killing is similar to a sexual high. And there is usually an evolution to this type of deranged predator. You have all heard that they tend to start small, torturing and killing helpless animals. Perhaps their pets, as a child. It is a mindless pastime to them, and they gradually increase the challenge.” She pursed her lips. “This one could be hiding in plain sight. He or she could come in and sit on the bar stool next to you, and you’d never suspect a thing. And what carnage will they graduate to when the thrill of random kills fades away?”
Eyeing the group, she took a half step away from the podium. “Questions?”
None of the officers’ hands went up. The room was silent.
Davis returned to the podium, turning his mic back on. “Okay, everyone. Gather your new assignments at the duty desk. We’ll have detectives in the field around the clock, so report everything the right way. Dismissed.”
As the officers filtered into the aisles and flowed toward the exits, Carly leaned over to Deshawn. “Firing a bullet that big would make a lot of noise. No one reported hearing anything. Not at any of the first three sites, according to the files. Have the other crime scenes reported any sound of gunfire?”
“Nope. Not to my knowledge. That makes them all have another thing in common, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does,” she said. “A silent killer using big freaking bullets.”
Chapter 18
Carrying an old briefcase and dressed in a navy blue suit, Sergio jogged up the fifteen or so concrete steps of the Centro Esturiano, a massive, decorative building located in Tampa’s Ybor City district. The Esturiano had the big columns and imposing features people traditionally associated with a courthouse, but its actual purpose had been a social club. The many Spanish immigrants that migrated to Ybor City in the late 1800s used the Esturiano’s large halls and upper rooms as the location for huge dances and “coming out” parties for debutantes.
Now, it was merely an ornate, vacant old building. The lots to the south and east were grassy fields; the businesses across the street consisted of a tiny, one-story sandwich restaurant attached to a transmission repair shop. Otherwise, no hint of high society remained in the immediate area.
On the Esturiano’s north side landing, Sergio grabbed the knob of an ancient door and gave it a pull. The door didn’t open. Cupping a hand to his cheek, he pressed his face to the glass. Darkness and silence.
Maybe I got the address wrong.
As he pulled out his phone to check, a youn
g boy called out.
“Mister, would you like to buy a cat?”
The child’s voice was meek and sad. Sergio turned around.
On the sidewalk was a small, dark-haired boy of about eight years of age, in a dirty t-shirt and dirtier coat. Next to him was a heavyset woman with the same dark hair. At their feet was a cardboard box.
“A cat, huh?” Sergio came down the steps. The wind blew his lapel up. Meows of varying loudness came from inside the box. “Or are they kittens?”
The boy looked at the woman. “Mama?”
“We need to sell both,” she said. “But folks don’t want to buy kittens for some reason, and we can’t afford to keep ‘em anymore. I hate to do it, but . . . we got no choice.”
“I had the cat since he was little.” The boy nodded, whispering. “He was my first pet ever. But . . . my Mama’s out of work.”
Squatting next to the box, Sergio pulled open the flap and peeked inside. A small black and white cat lay curled up next to two matching black and white kittens. Rubbing his chin, Sergio looked at the boy. “How much you asking?”
Tears welled in the child’s eyes. “The kittens are a dollar each.” He sniffled. “And Marcus Aurelius is five dollars.”
“Marcus Aurelius!” Sergio laughed. “That’s a big name for a little cat.”
The woman pointed at the cat’s head. A black crescent of fur went around the rear of the animal’s head, to just past his ears. “I thought that mark looked like the laurel wreaths the roman emperors wore. Alejandro went to the library and picked out the prettiest emperor on Wikipedia.”
“You did well. The emperor would be proud.” Sergio leaned over the box. “He’s definitely a good-looking cat.” Taking out his wallet, he removed a few bills. “There’s only one problem.”
The boy cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”
“Well,” Sergio said. “I definitely need a cat to help protect my condo for me, but the rules there don’t allow pets. So . . .” He eyed the child. “Do you think you could keep him for me?”