The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  They watched the dean judiciously descend the steps. Her heels clicked and echoed off the walls, a lonely sound.

  Gardy turned to the detective.

  “What can you tell us about the White Wall?”

  Ames appeared as if she wanted to spit.

  “Misguided degenerates, each and every one of them. Their leader is a senior named Kyle Hostetler. We rang him up last year for speeding through a residential area, but otherwise, he’s squeaky clean.”

  “You don’t think he is, though.”

  “Nothing sticks to him. Agent Gardy, he believes people of my race shouldn’t hold power because we don’t have adequate mental facilities. Idiots like Kyle Hostetler are what’s wrong with the world. Take the diversity festival last year. The students organized a rally but complained members of the White Wall physically impeded them from taking part. Hostetler was there the entire time, and several people witnessed him organizing his minions, yet Hostetler managed to vanish when the trouble started.”

  Bell leaned against the wall, arms folded.

  “That’s interesting. The dean claimed no violence took place.”

  Ames laughed without mirth.

  “Depends on your definition of violence. Is hostility violence? How about intimidation? It’s easy to paint statistics in a better light by subjectively altering definitions.”

  “Sounds like the college turns its head away from problems.”

  “It’s not that the college doesn’t do enough to curtail intimidation, but they brush incidents under the rug to maintain their image.”

  The steps became crowded as multiple classes dismissed. A brunette female squinted at the sun and pulled out her earbuds. She hesitated when she saw Bell.

  “I hope you find the monster who did this.”

  Bell squeezed past Gardy and moved closer to the girl.

  “We’ll do our best. Did you notice anything yesterday?”

  “Yeah. I was across campus. I work in the student center at the cafe. I heard the blast, but I figured it was a car backfiring.”

  “Did you know Eugene Buettner?”

  “Sure. I mean…not personally, but he was active on campus.”

  “Did he have problems with members of the White Wall?”

  The girl shifted her feet.

  “I’m not sure. I hope you kick them off campus. It was a matter of time before they turned violent.”

  The girl pulled a knit beanie over her head and blended in with the departing crowd.

  Bell joined Gardy, who surveyed the environment. The theater and literature buildings bordered the quad, and two dorms stood further down the walkway. The dorms interested Bell most. Plenty of open windows with good views of the stairs. Yet a gun blast would attract attention if fired from the dorm.

  Detective Ames seemed to sense Bell’s theory.

  “We canvased both residence dorms. Most everyone heard the gunshot but said it came from farther away.”

  Partially shielded by a small grove of trees, a parking lot butted up against the end of the quad.

  “Now, that’s a possibility,” Gardy said, bringing binoculars to his eyes.

  Bell nodded.

  “Good sight line on Buettner’s location, plus the trees offer concealment.”

  The detective’s phone rang. She walked a few steps away as Bell ran her eyes between the parking lot and the stairs. A minute later, Ames pocketed her phone and returned.

  “That was the ME. Now is a good time to discuss the autopsy report. I’m headed to the coroner’s office if you want to follow me.”

  “We’ll check out the parking lot and meet you there,” said Gardy.

  Ames nodded and hurried across the quad.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The County Coroner’s Office is a rectangular, beige chunk of concrete that looks as if a brick fell from the sky and landed at the edge of Milanville, California. Inside, the examination room is long and blindingly bright, the floor plan broken up by silver tables.

  The ME, Paul Canon, was busy working on the Buettner boy when Gardy and Bell arrived with Detective Ames. Canon’s hair was snow-gray, bald on top, and he sported a pencil mustache which appeared straight out of a black-and-white mystery. He moved in slow, precise steps as he rounded the table and passed a circular dish to Gardy.

  “The bullet went through the stomach and lodged in Buettner’s spine.”

  Gardy whistled.

  “That’s a 0.50 caliber BMG round. Our shooter means business.”

  He handed the dish to Ames, who studied the bullet under the light with Bell. Though Bell didn’t touch the round, she noted its size—large enough to stretch across her palm. A miniaturized missile.

  Ames raised her eyebrows.

  “Yikes. What’s he shooting, an M80?”

  “A Barrett M82 sniper rifle fired this round, to be specific.”

  Bell and Ames gaped at him.

  “I’m a bit of an enthusiast,” said Gardy. “But I don’t own one myself.”

  “What’s the range on the M82?”

  Gardy took the dish from Ames and handed it back to the ME.

  “It’s not the range so much as the damage. An M82 in the hands of a capable shooter will take down communications equipment, disable aircraft, and punch holes in an armored vehicle.”

  “So he’s not using it to hunt deer.”

  “Not unless the deer is driving a Chieftain tank.”

  They stared at him again. He opened his mouth and Ames said, “I know, you’re an enthusiast.”

  The day was hot and arid when they came outside after the autopsy.

  Ames placed her hands on the small of her back and stretched.

  “Based on the evidence, what do we know about our shooter?”

  In the distance, downtown shimmered like a mirage in the heat.

  “The killer lacks empathy for others,” said Bell. “That much is clear from the murder and the weapon used. In our experience, shooters are similar to other serial killers who tend to be loners. He’s never had power during his life, and now he exerts control over his world through violence.”

  “Rage built inside this guy for a long time,” said Gardy as Ames swung her eyes to him. “Yet he didn’t act until now. Something set him off.”

  “What’s our next step?”

  “I’d like to get Kyle Hostetler into the interview room,” said Bell.

  Ames grinned.

  “I like your way of thinking, Agent Bell. I’ve been waiting to nail his ass to the wall for four years.”

  “In the meantime, run a ballistics check on the round and see what comes back.”

  “Already on it.”

  The sun was in their eyes when they turned to their vehicles curbside. A rifle shot exploded. Bell hit the ground as Gardy covered the detective. Ames dragged the radio to her mouth and called for backup as the day went eerily silent.

  “Stay down,” Gardy said.

  He motioned the others to crawl toward the rented Subaru Outback.

  When they made it to the Outback, they sat with their backs to the door, guns drawn as a stream of cars passed. No further shots came. Shortly after, the wail of approaching sirens screamed from the center of the village.

  Bell crept out, using the grille as a shield.

  “Get back.”

  Gardy glared at her, but Bell swung the gun around the corner and saw no shortage of hiding places.

  A stand of trees in a park across the street. A vacant building with two broken windows. A five-story apartment complex, and a train of parked cars along a side street.

  Feeling exposed, she ducked next to Ames and Gardy.

  The detective’s voice quivered when she spoke.

  “Thank God, he missed.”

  Bell wasn’t so sure.

  “He didn’t miss. The shooter sent us a message.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  William Meeks pulls the black, cut-out circle of aluminum out of the hole in the trunk. A spotlight o
f sunshine beams through the opening and cuts the darkness.

  The shooter doesn’t know whether to laugh or panic, and what emanates from his chest is a choked giggle that sounds frighteningly loud in the confines of the trunk. He can’t believe he fired at the officers. Wonders where he summoned the courage. He thinks they’re local cops, but two of them might be FBI.

  The plan is perfect. The entire Milanville Police Department is en route to the County Coroner’s Building on the other side of the village. Downtown belongs to him now.

  He brings his eye to the scope and centers on a young woman breastfeeding on a park bench. A boy with facial piercings rides a skateboard down the sidewalk, and an elderly man stumbles out of the boy’s way. The man resumes sweeping the sidewalk in front of a flower shop after the boy passes.

  Sitting ducks. All of them.

  Light and shadows shift on the street as a cloud drifts overhead. The wind carries a strange myriad of scents into the trunk—baked concrete, flowers, exhaust fumes. He chews his nails. Knows it is a filthy habit, but he can’t stay calm.

  A Mexican couple pushes a pair of strollers down the sidewalk. The scope centers on one carriage, then the next. He imagines the outrage and terror that will follow if he pulls the trigger. Such an act will prove he knows no boundary. No one is safe.

  Meeks recalls the long days spent in the mountains. Target practice honed his aim, made it razor sharp. Yet it couldn’t replicate aiming the scope at a living person, didn’t capture the intensity of knowing a good Samaritan with a gun might shoot back.

  This is what a professional athlete feels, he thinks. To hit a one-hundred mph fastball while thousands of people scream. Grab the football and run over a weaker player with the television camera fixed on you. It’s a good pressure. Separates the men from the boys.

  He swings the M82 toward a grassy island set in the medium. A balding father sits on a park bench with his toddler son. The boy holds a cheap model airplane and repeatedly flies it across his vision. Meeks imagines the pretend propeller sound, focuses the scope on the child’s exposed belly and touches the trigger.

  The trunk becomes hot again. Not stifling, but uncomfortable. He exhales and puts the rifle down. Opens the laptop beside him and scans the latest news. The Vida College shooting dominates the headlines. As he pages through the articles, he realizes the police and media are no closer to finding him than they were when he killed the Buettner boy. No news yet of the shot fired toward the officers, but the media will pick up the story soon.

  He minimizes the web browser and checks the GPS program. Studies his position and escape route. Knows where to drive if the operation goes south.

  The din of voices brings his head around as he closes the laptop. A movie lets out, and dozens of people stream from the Milanville Cineplex down the street.

  Two women laugh beside the car. He didn’t see them coming.

  Quickly, he removes the muzzle and fumbles in the dark for the round piece of aluminum. Covers the hole and blankets the trunk in darkness. Waits patiently as they scuffle along the sidewalk, moving away from the car.

  He doesn’t like that they approached the car without him knowing. Only being able to see in one direction makes him edgy, turns the interior of the trunk a shade hotter and makes it difficult to breathe. His fingers are sweaty. He should install a fan and run the power off the cigarette lighter.

  Meeks can’t wait much longer. He pops the aluminum plug out and puts his nose to the opening. Breathes the fresh air. His pulse returns to normal.

  Movement on the sidewalk causes Meeks to scoot toward the back of the trunk and bring the muzzle up.

  Peering through the scope, he spies a white businessman with a Bluetooth ear-piece strutting past the movie theater. This is the man the shooter seeks. A representative of consumerism and profiteering.

  He reminds Meeks of the pudgy, graying banker who denied his loan. One year from profitability, and now this. This is how the world works. You come from nothing, are treated like a nobody, and the world ensures you stay in your box. Wrapped in a neat little package so people of privilege can kick you down the street and toss you in the garbage when they’re finished.

  The man sneers while he speaks. People look at him oddly as he struts past, seemingly speaking to ghosts.

  The snide businessman’s progress takes him behind a mailbox and a line of parked cars. Meeks curses and chews his lip, tastes the copper trickle down his tongue. It takes several seconds before the man emerges from cover. Meeks will lose his angle if he doesn’t act.

  The angle isn’t right. Trees planted along the sidewalk obscure the shot.

  He breathes. Waits.

  The moment comes.

  Meeks pulls the trigger.

  The sound after the blast is akin to a jet plane shooting into the heavens. A murderous Doppler effect.

  The businessman’s chest explodes in a shower of red, the force hurling him against a plate-glass window. The panicked screams begin as the man flops down into a seated position, legs splayed stupidly as though he decided to rest there a while. He isn’t dead yet. Unlike the movies where death is as instantaneous as the final credits, it will take a while for the man to die. The man’s chin drops to his chest. He looks at the gaping hole, unable to lift his arms as the blood pumps and pumps.

  Most of the bystanders drop to the pavement or seek shelter inside stores. They are not safe behind a thin layer of glass. An elderly woman writhes in the gutter, trampled by the fleeing cowards. Her moans carry to the car, a whine like the bleating of cows.

  Meeks removes the Barrett M82 from the bipod and lays the semi-automatic rifle on its side. Squishes his eye into the opening and watches people vapidly zigzag around swerving vehicles. Others climb into their own vehicles and escape the riot.

  Amid the confusion, he pops the trunk open to a sliver. No one watches.

  Quietly, he pushes through the gap and clicks the trunk shut.

  Meeks is behind the wheel when the sirens begin.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  A call-in radio program played in the background as Gardy drove the Outback into downtown. The glare against the windshield made it difficult for Bell to read her tablet, which spilled out updates from the Milanville Police Department.

  “I wish he wouldn’t say that,” Bell said. The caller, a self-proclaimed anti-gun activist, referred to the shooter as a nobody, a coward who didn’t have the balls to fight another man face-to-face. “All he’s doing is instigating the shooter.”

  Gardy clicked the turn signal and coasted onto Thompson Avenue.

  “I doubt our shooter requires instigation. He’s doing well without it.”

  Now the caller complained the president, senate, and congress were bought and paid for by the NRA, then called for a national uprising to overthrow the government.

  Thompson emptied onto Main Street where a swarm of flashing lights swirled and colored the blacktop. There was no way to force the Outback through the massing emergency vehicles. Bell pointed at an empty space along the curb.

  “Pull over here.”

  Noticing the space at the last second, Gardy backed up and executed a flawless parallel park between two compact cars.

  “Not bad,” said Bell. “The old guy’s still got it.”

  “Did you expect anything less?”

  As they walked toward the crowd, the horrific scene took shape. Bell cringed. A bloody sheet covered the body on the stretcher. It almost looked like a prop from a Halloween store, too many red stains to be real. One arm, clad in a blue suit jacket and adorned with a gold watch, stuck out from beneath the sheet. Matching dress shoes poked out, angled askew from each other. A woman cried beside the stretcher. His wife, Bell figured. It hurt to look at her. Bell busied herself watching the police push the crowd back.

  The crime techs assessed a portion of sidewalk secured by roadblocks and a crisscross of yellow police tape which jiggled when the wind blew. Two of the techs lined up the shot trajector
y with the murder spot and pointed behind Bell and Gardy. Bell instinctively glanced over her shoulder and saw empty sidewalk and a row of brownstone apartment houses.

  Bell spotted two ambulances and an armored police truck. Dozens of police officers worked the crowd, several from neighboring townships. Adding to the confusion, the media aimed cameras as reporters shouted questions and tried to muscle past the line of officers.

  “There’s Canon,” Bell said.

  The ME stood beside Detective Ames, who’d gotten to the murder site a few minutes before Bell and Gardy. Canon noticed them and nodded once, then turned back to Ames.

  Bell split off from Gardy when they reached the emergency vehicles. While Gardy talked with Ames and Canon, Bell walked Main Street. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, and when she released her breath, the chaos seemed to clear, lending her a calm lucidity.

  Her eyes opened to an alternate view of Main Street, one in which shoppers carried bags and people milled in front of the cafe and movie theater. A bicyclist rode past, and a family played with their children on the grassy island.

  All targets.

  Bell took a step backward and envisioned bystanders seen through a scope. She was too close. The shooter set up farther away.

  Following the curb, she walked half a block and turned around. This was the area the crime techs targeted. Several open parking spaces marked where the killer could have hidden. Inside the trunk, she theorized. Like the D.C. snipers, who killed seventeen people before they were captured.

  The unknown subject’s body count stood at two. She couldn’t imagine another fifteen murders.

  It would be uncomfortable inside the trunk. Cramped. Not much room to maneuver the Barrett M82. The killer would need to scrunch against the back of the trunk unless he removed the back seat. The muzzle would fit through a hole. If the entire village kept their eyes open, someone might spot a car with a hole drilled in the trunk.

  The killer used a vehicle for concealment. No other option made sense.

  Yes, the roofs, open windows, and sidewalk afforded the shooter excellent vantage points. But someone would notice the unknown subject after he fired the gun. Among a throng of people running for their lives, it would be impossible to miss someone with a sniper rifle.