by David Bishop
Colin scooted back to sit on the table. “I’m the one who has been resisting the idea, but no more. This dude’s on his own.”
Jack made eye contact with each member of his squad. “Is anyone opposed to assuming LW is a one-man militia?”
“Still,” Rachel said, “we need to keep an open mind in case we find something that does suggest he’s got help.”
“Okay then,” Jack summarized, “for now, no militia. We have a serial killer of high government officials who has conned himself into thinking he serves some noble purpose.”
Rachel reported that she and Millet had narrowed the list to fewer than twenty passengers.
After the meeting broke, Jack stood in front of the paper graveyard of dead officials that he had been looking at off and on all day. Something kept squirming in some dark place at the back of his mind, but he just couldn’t bring it into the light. He kept staring, but the lurking thought stayed just out of reach.
“Most of the murders were here in D.C. or within a day’s drive,” Jack said to Rachel who had come over to stand with him. “I’m guessing that the D.C. murders didn’t require LW to travel.”
They rearranged the pictures so that the photos of the victims killed within driving distance of D.C. were in one row, pinning the others off to one side.
“If LW lives near here only Taylor in Cleveland and Breen in Oregon would have required him to travel. We’re assuming he flew.”
Rachel moved the idea forward. “Living here would have also simplified the surveillance of his targets.”
“Makes sense,” said Millet, who sneezed and wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. “And it would explain why we found phony passengers on just the flights that fit what you’re calling the-out-of-town murders. It’s not rock hard but it’s more than a guess.”
“Can you go back and see if any of your remaining twenty took an earlier flight to Cleveland or the West Coast within the prior year?” Jack asked Millet. “It could’ve been LW on surveillance trips.”
“What we’re doing now with the flights is all within a known time span, framed by the dates of the murders. To do what you’re asking now would have no time frame. LW could have made those trips weeks or even months before the murders. Think number of passengers times all those flights, over all those months, even years, and the jobs gets too big unless you can get us access to the airline’s master computer. If the airlines will cooperate, they could search the names we give them to see if they have ever had a passenger with those names.”
Rachel agreed to speak with the FBI Director to see if there was a precedent for the cooperation of the airlines without a court order. It would take a few days at least to get that clearance, and they all knew that if they did get it, they would need to share parts of their investigation with a broad group of people untrained in detection.
They were bogged down with paper pushing. Right now, that was their best choice, but Jack didn’t like it.
CHAPTER 35
The president’s political opponents are pressuring him to appoint an independent commission to look into McCall’s mishandling of the LW case.
—Washington Post, June 17
On June seventeenth, with the early sun coloring the gray morning sky, LW left home. He spent a good part of the morning driving to Pittsburgh where he caught a plane for Dallas, the home of Federal Reserve Governor Harold Capone. Harry wasn’t related to the late Alphonse “Scarface” Capone of Chicago fame but, of the two, LW believed the man he called squinty-eyed Texas Harry to be the bigger criminal.
Capone had first been appointed to complete the remaining twelve years of a retiring Fed governor’s term and, after that had expired, he accepted his own full fourteen-year appointment to the board. LW was infuriated that someone never elected by the people could wield such great power for so long over the financial health of the nation.
For two weeks, earlier in the year, LW watched Harry Capone. During that time he discovered that Capone was a man of decidedly regular habits. When in Dallas, he always arrived home by five, and immediately walked for forty-five minutes on the treadmill in his exercise room. After that he swam for thirty minutes in his backyard pool. This behavior had also been written about by a Dallas newspaper.
LW had also found the perfect venue, a hill five hundred yards behind Capone’s house. For the shot he selected the pool rather than the exercise room. In the house Capone would go down under the window sill, but in the pool his scope would allow confirmation of the kill.
For this operation, LW carried a driver’s license identifying himself as George Marks from Sharon, Pennsylvania. He had studied maps of Sharon and researched the name of its newspaper, main stores, banks, and schools so that he could appear highly familiar with the town. He even carried a marked-up golf scorecard from the Sharon Country Club.
After a reduced-price early dinner in Dallas, a tip for frugal consumers he had learned from his mother during their inseparable years after his father died, he paid cash and left the restaurant at four thirty.
His first stop was a you-store-it, you-lock-it storage garage where he had previously rented a unit that couldn’t be seen from the office, but could be seen from across the street. He donned latex gloves, opened the storage unit, and removed two guns and a boom box with a remote control, all rolled inside a blanket.
He had outfitted a Tango 51 with a threaded suppressor and .308 Winchester cartridges. He also carried an Ingram MAC-10, .45-caliber rapid-fire submachine gun. The plan was to leave the Tango 51 on the hill, but keep the Ingram until he had safely cleared the area, then dispose of it before returning to the airport.
A street on the back side of the hill provided a quiet, private place to park. From there he walked up the hill carrying the guns rolled in their storage blanket to a point where he could see over Capone’s back fence.
The view into Capone’s yard reminded him that the grass, nourished by the chemicals that polluted America’s ground water, was always greener in the yards of the rich.
Capone was already swimming his laps, with two suits, probably FBI agents, continually circling the pool. LW had expected agents to be watching Capone up close. To date LW had given the authorities no reason to anticipate he could strike from distance.
LW believed that most people working for the FBI were devoted to America. He didn’t wish to kill agents. Not unless it became necessary, and if it came to that it would be their own fault. Next, he inserted a tape of sporadic gunfire into the boom box, and slid it into a bush on Capone’s side of the knoll. He then moved fifty yards to the north, got on the ground, and rolled over the crest to behind a patch of scrub brush. He would take the shot from Capone’s side of the hill so his silhouette would be against the hill, not the horizon.
Next, he unrolled the blanket, assembled his Tango, and brought the scope to his face. The view through the scope suddenly darkened. His heart raced. He lowered the scope. Shit. It’s only a cloud passing in front of the sun. Get a grip, asshole.
He understood feeling a bit jumpy. After all, there were people trying to prevent him from completing his historic mission. People who, like the shadows from the clouds, were sneaking up on him, people being led by Jack McCall. He had tried to befriend McCall, even gave him a chance to join him, a chance to be a patriot and help save America. But Jack had hurled insults at his father and his cause. He knew right then, that he would kill McCall.
The thought of having resolved the dilemma of Jack McCall calmed his nerves. After reversing his red baseball cap, putting the bill to the back, he continued watching through the scope as Capone swam back and forth from one end of his pool to the other. Back and forth, back and forth like a bloated dolphin without the fluid grace.
When Capone finished his laps, he stood in the shallow end, tilted his head back, and ran his hands hard over his wet hair, plastering the remaining strands to his scalp.
Capone stepped onto the first step on the pool. Now. LW brought the rifle to his shoulder,
the scope to his eye.
One of the agents threw Capone a towel. He stood on the step drying himself, then blotted his face and tossed the towel onto the nearest pool chair.
LW squeezed off a single round that blossomed into a small red boutonniere on Capone’s forehead.
The justice spun around in an uncoordinated ballet of death. His arms lashed out as he fell back into the pool, a jagged red stain coloring the water as it refilled the hole Capone’s ruined face had smashed into its surface.
The two agents immediately drew their guns and began scurrying about like Keystone Kops on a flickering silent silver screen. Two more agents ran out from the house, the first restrained Mrs. Capone while the other jumped into the pool to remove her limp husband.
When the agents were looking in his general direction LW pressed the button on the remote. Upon an unexpected sound, people instinctively turn their heads toward that sound.
At that moment, LW dropped the Tango 51 and rolled back over the crest of the hill, stood, brushed himself off quickly, and trotted down toward his car. The gunfire tape went silent just as he reached the road.
Ten minutes later, LW tossed the Ingram in a Dumpster behind a Taco Bell. Inside the fast food restaurant, he flushed his surgical gloves in their bathroom, using a paper towel to push the flusher and turn the knob. After five minutes of driving at the speed limit, he turned onto Interstate 45 south.
Later, he pulled off the highway at the exit for Huntsville, a small town approximately three quarters of the way to Houston. There, in a vacant lot he set fire to the car he had stolen from the long-term parking lot at the airport in Dallas. It had rained the night before and the car had been clean. The owner would likely not return for several more days. After walking a few blocks, he flagged down one of Huntsville’s few taxis to take him the rest of the way to the Houston Airport.
Where are you Jack McCall? You told the nation you were coming for me.
LW laughed, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 36
Fed Governor Harold Capone has been shot dead at his Dallas home.
The world waits to confirm the obvious: LW has struck again.
—Mel Carsten, D.C. Talk, June 17
Frank leaned against the Bullpen wall and spoke to Jack. “I’m not so sure we should’ve authorized Carsten to read this newest communiqué. It stinks of a recruiting message.”
“His story is burning a hole in his gut,” Jack replied. “He’s longing for people to say they understand. That they agree. That he should keep killing. We learn something more every time this sick bastard runs his mouth. We must trust the American people to take what they hear for what it is, the rambling of a lunatic.”
“Listen up,” Rachel said, turning up the volume on their television as D.C. Talk returned from a commercial break.
Carsten stood in front of the cameras holding a sheet of paper. He began to read:
A Communiqué from the American Militia to Restore Representative Government:
I’m proud to announce the ranks of the American Militia to Restore Representative Government continue to grow. Today, another right-thinking American became our newest volunteer by eliminating the unelected aristocrat Harry Capone.
The recruit is apparently a crack shot. Welcome to the militia, whoever you are. I’m not sure when we will meet, but for now it’s okay if we don’t. You know our mission.
To my friend Jack McCall: this makes your job harder, doesn’t it? I’m beginning to enjoy our little game. Will America continue on the path to an aristocracy or return to the representative government envisioned by our fathers? Which of us is America rooting for now?
Commander LW
Jack turned the volume off and called the FBI detail that had been protecting Capone. After he hung up, he brought his squad together and told them what he had learned about the shooting.
“The shot that killed Capone required considerable skill. Let’s brainstorm the possibilities of who might have been the shooter and then qualify them on their merits.”
Rachel turned from the pinboard. “In my mind, there’s no doubt that LW was the shooter,” she said while moving the picture of Harold Capone to the row of victims, their working hypothesis said would have required LW to fly. “LW did it.” After a deep breath, she lowered her voice. “He’s using his sharpshooting skills now because the increased security keeps him from getting close to his targets.”
“It may not have been either LW or a recruit,” Colin said. “It could’ve been someone else with a grudge against Capone, using LW for cover. His wife, a lover, somebody he owed a gambling debt. Any of the reasons Americans kill each other every day.”
“It’s also possible,” Frank said while refilling their coffee cups, the handle of the pot lost in his massive hand, “he’s really got a militia or at least a few cuckoos willing to do his bidding. The sharpshooter might have already been a member of his militia. If so, his communiqué is either misdirection or a solicitation for more recruits.”
Nora stood while Jack furiously wrote on the flip chart, then said, “The shooter could’ve just been some wacko copycat wanting to see his killing on the front page.”
Jack scribbled, “copycat,” also adding “recruit” to their growing list of possibilities. Then said, “It’s possible some moron could have joined him.”
Millet quit scratching himself. “It could have been someone with a rage against some ruling by the Federal Reserve. There are those who blame the economic slowdowns on the Fed’s fucking obsession with inflation—including me. Productivity gains resulting from technological advances would have continued to offset inflationary pressures. The economy had been running so good for so long the Fed just couldn’t keep their fingers in their butts.”
“For the sake of argument we should include the possibility that the killer simply got the wrong house and intended to kill someone else. The backs of houses don’t show addresses.” Jack stepped back to the flip chart and wrote: wrong victim.
“Okay, we’ve got the possibles. Let’s trim them down to the probables. We need this investigation to continue as a rifle shot.” After a grin, he added, “No pun intended. Come on. Come on. Talk it out. Knock out one of these theories.”
“I think we can eliminate the likelihood of someone shooting the wrong person.”
“Why, Colin?”
“This killer chose a good rifle, dedicated himself to develop the skill to hit a man’s head from five hundred yards, even included the use of a boom box to aid his escape. All this suggests a careful, intelligent professional. Shooting the wrong person at a wrong house after using a scope to get a good look suggests an idiot. I can’t see this shooter being both brilliant and stupid. Is there anyone who disagrees?”
When no one spoke, Jack drew a broad line through what he knew had been the weakest choice on the chart—wrong victim.
Rachel kicked off her black flats. Jack had noticed she often did this when she was deep in thought. Then she proposed they reject Colin’s contribution of a personal grudge killing.
“The FBI report indicated the Capones were a loving couple,” she said. “The background check didn’t indicate either had any problems.”
“Does anyone disagree with Rachel?”
“Except for not being married, Justice Roberts had that same image until we found him dead in his mistress’s condo,” Colin reminded them.
“Everyone knows that we have these officials under tight security,” Frank said. “Few hit men would have taken this job at any price. Let’s toss that theory, but ask the FBI to check for a meaningful change in Mrs. Capone’s finances.”
“How does that sit with you, Colin?” Jack asked.
“I’ll go along.”
Jack tapped the flip chart. “What about these others?”
Rachel repeated her position. “We had good reason to conclude LW worked alone. I’ve heard nothing that argues to the contrary other than LW’s own claim.”
Rachel
moved to an empty chair near the flip chart, and sat on one shoeless foot. With the motion of leaning in, her breasts swelled to fill the opening at the top of her blouse. “Is there any support for any of these other possibilities?”
“Let’s talk some more about why it’s reasonable to conclude LW has no militia,” Frank suggested. “I know we talked before about the descriptions we got in Cleveland, in Oregon, and elsewhere, but our conclusions weren’t solid then, they still aren’t. Our thinking on this has been like nailing Jell-O to the wall. Is there something else that supports LW being a loner?”
Millet stood and scratched his belly with both hands. “Can I take over for a minute?”
“It’s all yours, Millet.” Jack put down his marking pen and sat at the table.
“You guys are the investigators,” Millet began. “Let me throw out a question and you all react to it. Okay, here’s the deal: each of you is LW and you have a militia.”
Millet began prowling around the table, talking faster as he circled. “Your self-appointed mission is to eliminate the justices of the U.S. Supreme Court and the governors of the Federal Reserve System. Are you going to dink along as LW has, killing one every week or so? If not, what’s your plan?”
Millet stopped circling near the head of the table and fixed them with a professorial glare. “Come on! Participate! Think out loud. You’re LW! You’ve got a militia! What’s your MO?”
“I would’ve used my militia to shorten the early-stage surveillance work,” Colin said to start the discussion. “That would also make the information from each surveillance more current when I needed it. Once the killing plans were set, I’d proceed like the American Mafia did to eliminate the old Sicilian Mustache Petes. I’d kill them all within a couple of days, if possible the same day. I’d assign each target to the member of my militia who surveilled that target.”