by Dan O'Shea
OK. So that was so much fun, they start using the same gun and the same guy on lots of hits that make the Politburo look like they have their heads up their zhopas. He plugs some Solidarity guy in Gdansk, pretty much handing the keys to the Warsaw White House to Walesa. Couple dozen hits on priests and other lefty troublemakers in a fruit salad of banana republics in Central America. People start calling the guy the Dragon. Thinking is he’s Soviet, or ex-Soviet, but either way he’s got Ivan seeing, well, red.
Then the wheels came off the Big Red Machine. Nobody needed a fake Russian anymore. But the shooter? He gets some weird religious attachment to his Dragunov. He is doing God’s work, and the Dragunov is God’s instrument – some such shit, like it’s Excalibur or something.
Dead guys start turning up with clean rounds in em. No rifling, no nothing. Word among the Fort Campbell types was that the Dragon was saboting his rounds so he could keep using his toy.
And now you got people pierced by magic bullets turning up outside churches in Chicago. You got a 54mm casing that somebody who loves bullets more than he loves his mother has honed like a fucking scalpel. And Cunningham had to decide what he was going to say and to whom.
On the one hand, it was a no-brainer. Cunningham was a cop and anyway you sliced it, this was murder. On the other hand, Cunningham had, by the legal definition, murdered people before – and done so on the orders of the sort of people who might be ordering these kills, if it really was the Dragon at work.
But why would they be ordering these? Hard to see Riordan as Al-Qaeda or anything. Harder still to see the old lady who caught the first one. But Cunningham had been around a lot of funny-shaped blocks.
What he had to do, he figured, was call in. Had to be somebody he knew still far enough inside that they could talk to somebody and get the word back. And if the word was national security, then Cunningham would have some thinking to do.
CHAPTER 37 – CHICAGO
Bernstein waved Lynch over as soon as he got into the office the next morning.
“The prints from your pop can? Got a hit.”
“About time we caught something. Who?”
“You’re going to love this one. Ferguson, James R., USMC.”
“A Marine?”
“Yep. All sorts of shit you’re gonna like. Enlisted in 1968. Couple of tours with a long-range recon unit – and they are, from my research, gentlemen of some account. Nominated for the Silver Star twice and the DSC once. Got the second Star. Four Purple Hearts, and not those John Kerry band-aid jobs, either. Took a round through his right lung. Another one through his left leg. USMC long-distance shooting champ in ’70, again in ’72. Graduated from the scout/sniper program in ’72, then his records get a little fuzzy – gotta figure he got lent out to one of those special operations groups you hear about.”
“Son of a bitch. Home fucking run. We got a photo?”
Bernstein handed Lynch a formal USMC portrait from 1973. Better than thirty years old, but it was the guy.
“That’s our boy. Anything more recent?”
“Not likely. Nothing after ’73. Records have him as KIA. They planted him at Arlington.”
Lynch just stood for a second, looking at Bernstein, then rubbed his face. “So how do prints from some guy who’s been dead since the Nixon administration end up on a pop can in yesterday’s trash? I watched this guy drop the can in the garbage. I watched our guy take the prints.”
“An interesting question.”
“So somebody screwed up. Run em again.”
“Already did. Got the same record, and the prints are way past a legal match – every loop, every whorl.”
“Some kind of computer screw up?”
“These didn’t start out digital. What I’ve got is a digital copy of his paper record. The prints are on the same piece of paper as his photo, and you’re telling me the photo looks like the guy. Computer could pull up the wrong record, but it couldn’t mismatch the photo and prints – they’re all part of the same image. If the records were more modern – prints and photos residing as separate pieces of data – then, sure, it’d be possible to screw up the search, get the data mismatched. But this? I don’t see how.”
“Maybe a vampire?”
“Maybe he’s Hindu.”
“What?”
“Reincarnation.”
“Thought they came back as cows or something.”
“Varying levels of incarnation reflecting their growing enlightenment until they achieve Nirvana.”
“That Cobain guy achieved Nirvana. Look where it got him.”
“Nirvana the state of being, not Nirvana the band.”
“So God’s not a grunge rocker. This is seriously fucked. We got a possible perp matches up every way we need him to, and we got some computer in Washington telling us he’s been dead for better than thirty years. Is it just this system says he’s dead? You check anything else?”
“In 1974, armed forces insurance paid off the only living relative, a spinster aunt, Ellen Grinde, who kicked off in 1980. Arlington checks out. They’ve got a James R. Ferguson buried in the fall of 1973. Ran a credit check using all his info – nothing. The James R Ferguson with these prints hasn’t filed a tax return, used a credit card, applied for a loan, engaged in any reportable financial transaction of any kind since July, 1973. This guy hasn’t popped up anywhere he shouldn’t have until yesterday.”
“Cunningham put me on to the guy. Said he turned up at Fort Campbell just when Bush the First was taking his swing at Saddam. Said he thought he was CIA.”
“So we got some operative out of a Tom Clancy novel, and the CIA fakes his death so it can send him around shooting old ladies and Democratic party hacks from outrageous distances?”
“You got a better explanation?”
Bernstein smiled. “You ever hear of Occam’s Razor?”
“That a Gillette product?”
“Philosophical principal. States that, all else being equal, the simplest explanation for any given set of facts likely is the right explanation.”
“And?”
“The Tom Clancy scenario? So far as I can see, that’s it.” Bernstein pulled a couple of pages out of the pile on his desk and handed them to Lynch. “Something else we ought to think about, too. We got two people in a row shot coming out of church now. The press thinks it’s a serial killer ritual thing – this Confessional Killing shit – not some kind of payback for Marslovak. Maybe they’re right.”
“Thinking the same thing,” said Lynch. “You run a search?”
“Had a shooting little over a week ago in Wisconsin. Guy coming out of confession. Also, you see the news last night, big shootout downstate?”
“Thought that was some drug deal.”
“Maybe, but we don’t get that many people shot with rifles from long distances, and a couple of those guys were, so I Googled around on that a bit.” Bernstein handed Lynch a map. “Got your Wisconsin shooting here, north shore of Door County, just about two hundred thirty miles north of the Marslovak shooting. Thing is, it is due north, I mean exactly. Now, you got this mess downstate, town called Moriah, a bit southeast of Effingham. Damn near exactly two hundred thirty miles south.”
“Due south?”
“Off by a mile or so. But there’s a Catholic church near the downstate thing, and it is due south. Exactly.”
“Guess I better make some calls,” said Lynch.
Lynch called the sheriffs in Wisconsin and downstate. Door County sheriff was sticking to his story – he had a case on a jilted husband, and he didn’t want to screw with it. Said he’d take a look at the church for the bugs, though.
Guy from downstate, Buttita, he wanted to talk.
“We get out there,” Buttita said, “and we got the station guy dead – three 9mm center chest through the window. We got the cop and a housewife in the parking lot. Housewife’s on the ground next to her minivan, two year-old kid in the back seat bawling her eyes out. Housewife’s got a .25 through the f
orehead. Cop’s got a 9mm in the head and is burned to a crisp. Somebody’d put a couple of .50s into the squad car. Got some .25 holes and 9mm holes in the squad. That’s got to be at least two, maybe three people – two different hand guns and a big-ass rifle. So we’re working that scene for a while when I notice we’re getting a lot of crows up on top the ridge east of the station. We get up there, this is maybe 200 yards out, we got two more stiffs, dressed in cammies, both got nines in shoulder holsters, both got M16s next to them, none of their weapons are fired. One’s got a hole through his chest and a hole through the head, the other’s got a hole through the throat – all 7.62mm rounds, rifle rounds. So now I’ve got two different hand guns and two rifles. Another little ways up that hill, we got a third guy missing the back of his head.”
“Let me play psychic here and guess that you can’t get any ballistics on the 7.62s,” Lynch said.
A long pause on the phone. “We haven’t let that out.”
“Got a couple of shootings up here, same thing.”
“Drugs?”
“Not so far.”
“The cammie guys? They got IDs on them, so we run that, find out they stayed in the Days Inn over in Effingham. Got a duffle in one room, got traces of meth in it, also a mess of cash. Ran these guys through the system, they all got a history in the meth trade. We were thinking a drug thing some way or another, but still damn weird. Dead guys up on the hill, dead people in the parking lot. Got a blood trail off the cliff on the west end. Just a clusterfuck.”
“Let me make it weirder for you. You got a church near there, Holy Angels?”
“Not far away, yeah.”
“I’m gonna fax you a picture of some electronics. You may want to take a look over there and see if you can find anything like them in or near the confessionals.”
An hour later, Buttita called back. “OK, Lynch,” he said. “It’s officially weirder.”
It was dark when Lynch left the station. When he was halfway to his car, Cunningham stepped out of the shadows and into the blind spot created by Lynch’s eyepatch.
“Let’s take a walk. You and me gotta talk.”
Lynch turned. “Reason you couldn’t call me?”
“Maybe.”
“You gonna keep being real mysterious like this?”
“Till we get up on the street, in with some people and background noise where I’m pretty sure nobody can keep a parabolic on us and get anything, yeah.”
“Being a little paranoid, aren’t you?”
“Bet your sweet ass,” Cunningham said.
Lynch and Cunningham walked up onto a main drag, mixed in with the evening pedestrian traffic.
“OK, Cunningham, what’s up?”
“That casing. I did see something, but I had to check a few things before I talked with you. Especially on top of seeing that guy on the street.”
“So what do you have?”
“Ghost story,” Cunningham said. “Or maybe a spook story.” He told Fisher about the Dragon.
When Cunningham was done, Lynch stopped, turned and eyeballed him for a minute. “You wanna explain why it is you have to talk to your old Corps friends before you talk to me?”
Cunningham held Lynch’s eyes, didn’t look away, didn’t blink. “I get to where I think I gotta explain myself to you, I’ll let you know.”
The two men stood like that a minute, then Lynch turned and started back up the street.
“That guy you saw at the Riordan scene? Was that this Dragon guy?”
“Don’t know. Heard about the Dragon, never saw him. But I got passed around a little today through the Corps grapevine. Guy I finally talked with – and I’m not giving you any names here, so don’t ask – he’s a little freaked. Some weird shit happening in DC. Lot of churn all of a sudden over on the spook side of the street, chain of command getting juggled, and suddenly there’s a big market for shooters. Somebody needs triggermen ASAP. Don’t know who, don’t know why. Also, that shit downstate? Word is that was our boy. Guy I talked to says Fisher – can’t remember his first name, some kind of weird biblical thing he thinks, but he’s pretty sure on Fisher.”
“We got a hit on the prints from the Riordan scene,” Lynch said. “That guy you saw, his name’s Ferguson. He’s ex-Corps, too. Thing is, system says he was KIA in 1973.”
“Heard they do that sometimes – clear the history on somebody.”
“So maybe somebody wiped this Ferguson’s record, changed his name to Fisher?”
Cunningham walked for a minute, thinking, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. Timeline seems off. This Ferguson, he goes back in Nam a-ways. The Dragon, he would have still been a little green then. And if the shooter’s Fisher, I don’t picture him hanging around after he takes his shot waiting for us to eyeball him.”
“You telling me we got two Agency sniper types running around?”
Cunningham nodded. “Two yeah, but not Agency. Whatever’s going on is totally black. This isn’t going to trace back to anybody with a government business card. I think maybe this Fisher’s slipped his leash. An old lady? Some half-ass city pol? Not the type of targets you waste that kind of talent on. And both of em you could have taken out without the sniper shit. That kind of thing attracts attention. Sniping is always plan B. You got another option, you use it.”
“So you think Ferguson’s here for Fisher?”
“Yeah.”
“Which leaves one question.”
“What?”
CHAPTER 38 – CHICAGO
Lynch drove back to his place, whipped, just wanting to sleep. When he stepped through the door, Ferguson was sitting in the leather chair across the room holding a slim automatic with a sizable suppressor.
“Little gun,” said Lynch.
“Hush puppy,” said Ferguson. “I could shoot you from here and you’d barely hear it. Just a .22, but there are ten in the clip, and I can put all of them inside a quarter from this distance.”
“Good thing I’m not carrying any change,” said Lynch.
Ferguson smiled. “Couple things. First, take off your jacket, take the nine out from under your arm, left hand, carefully. Take out the clip, rack the slide, and set everything on the table by the door. Don’t worry, I wanted you dead, you’d be there. I just don’t want your mind cluttered up with any how-do-I-get-my-gun-out thoughts while we’re chatting.”
Lynch took out his gun, emptied it, set it down.
“You don’t carry some cheap-ass little throw-down in an ankle holster or anything, do you? You say no and I see one when you cross your legs, I’m gonna take exception.”
Fisher hiked up his pants legs and flashed the argyles at Ferguson.
“Nice socks,” said Ferguson.
“Trying to up my sartorial game,” said Lynch.
“Christ, you start dating a writer and look at the shit comes out your mouth.”
Lynch tried not to show anything.
“Yeah, I know about the reporter,” said Ferguson.
“Know a few things myself, Ferguson.” Lynch throwing the name out, looking for a little edge. “Like how you died back in ’73.”
Ferguson let out a little snort. “That or how?”
“Both. Friendly fire. Nice touch.”
“OK, we all through impressing each other, or we gotta get our dicks out?”
“Hey,” said Lynch, “it’s your meeting.”
Ferguson twitched the gun toward the couch on the far wall. “Why don’t you go on over have a seat, get comfy, so I can set this thing down. Really don’t need to keep it on you the whole time, do I?”
“Sure,” said Lynch. “Nice and friendly, except for the whole B&E part. But what’s a felony among friends, right?”
“I knew you’d be a reasonable guy. OK, we – we being you and us – have been butting heads over a little matter, and that’s not productive. Some guys I work with – it’s not just me, and you know that – were maybe a little hard-assed about this whole thing. But, gets down to i
t, we’re on the same side. You’ve got a shooter you’d like off the streets. We’d like him off the streets, too.”
“This we, do I get an antecedent to go with the pronoun?”
“Let’s just say elements of the national security apparatus, shall we?” Ferguson pulled a pack of Dunhills from an inside pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Actually, yes,” said Lynch.
Ferguson shrugged, flicked open a well-used Zippo, and lit up. “Mind if I do anyway?”
“Since you put it like that,” said Lynch.
Ferguson took a long pull, blew a stream of smoke up toward the ceiling.
“How’d you get my name? Cunningham spot me?”
“Down by the church. We pulled your prints off the Dr Pepper can you dropped.”
Ferguson nodded. “Fucking prints. They were supposed to swap those out years ago. Let me ask you this. You work out who you’re looking for yet?”
“Getting close.”
“You get close to this guy, you’ll get dead.”
“I’ll give you he’s a scary SOB. Still gonna run him down, though.”