Closure

by Randall Wood

  “Who knows?” She sighed. “Should we go pitch in and make sure the kids are playing nice together?”

  “You always did like to get dirty.” Stacie tossed her a box of gloves. “Bodies or car?”

  “Bodies.”

  * * *

  Sam rubbed his freshly shaven jaw as he drove steadily west at the posted limit. It had been some time since he had been in the open desert, and he missed it. He was looking for a place to accomplish a few necessary things, things that were necessary before his next destination. With hundreds of miles of desert around, he just needed the right spot and a little privacy. He slowed to check out the next dirt road, just a rut through the desert, leading off north-west into hilly terrain. It was the fourth such road he had encountered. This one showed no recent tracks. The on-line weather site had reported no rain in the area for weeks. A good sign this might be it. Sam checked his rearview for any cars that might see him pull off. Negative, he was the only car in sight. The road led fairly straight away from the highway for about two miles before he entered some hills and it began to wind and deteriorate. The rental Jeep did just fine in the sand, spinning the tires only once. Sam kept an eye on the surrounding area. No sign of motorcycles or other off-road toys. He was quite some distance away from the nearest town. He hoped people did not come out this far to play. The road meandered for another three miles before ending in a washout. The two-foot drop into the soft sand convinced him he could go no further. He exited the Jeep to look around. It was in sort of a natural amphitheater, with hills on three sides, and miles of desert off to the north out the open end. Sam consulted his map and pulled out his Garmin GPS, a gift from his wife two years ago. The Garmin confirmed what he already knew. He was in the middle of nowhere. At least with the GPS he knew exactly where in the middle he was. Sam looked around and smiled. It was not only perfect for what he needed, he found it gorgeous. Sam reached into the backseat of the Jeep and pulled out his camelback, a hat, and some Chapstick. He slathered on some sunblock for Dr. Maher before grabbing his sunglasses. After locking the Jeep behind him, he set off in the direction he had come, skirting the road by fifty meters or so. He watched for snakes while examining the brush and cactus.

  After a mile, he left the road and began climbing the hillside. Proceeding at a slow pace, keeping his head up and ears tuned to his surroundings, he planned to circle the area to rule out any company that might be drawn to the noise. As he moved, his training automatically kicked in, and he was confident that he would see or hear anyone before they heard him. Sam paused long enough to test his climbing skills on a boulder. To get a better view, he told himself. On the second ridge he stopped for a few minutes to watch a lizard watch him. The outdoors had been Sam’s element in his younger days and he was enjoying this. He walked slowly, taking his time, pausing at regular intervals to look and listen. As he topped the last ridge, a hawk fell out of the sky after some prey. Sam checked through the binoculars, but the predator was out of sight in the brush.

  “At least I’m not the only one out here,” Sam voiced.

  After an hour, Sam was convinced this was the place. He opened the back of the Jeep and pulled out the pistol first. A Browning BDM 9mm, same as he had at home, only this one had the marks of a file on the slide and frame. Paul had managed to find three fifteen-round clips somewhere, they were more expensive these days thanks to President Clinton, but no harder to find really. Sam loaded a clip and tucked the automatic into the small of his back with one practiced fluid motion. Next, he pulled out some targets and a couple of three-foot stakes. He placed the stakes about ten feet apart and pounded them in with a good-sized rock. The string was strung taut between the stakes and the targets hung. Zeroing targets. The rifles were new to him and he needed to get acquainted with them. Both were his favorite Remington 700 in .308 caliber with 3x9 variable scopes. One was in a satin finish, which might reflect light, but that couldn’t be helped according to Paul. That shouldn’t matter at the next stop, as long as it was accurate enough. The next shot was a long one, and Sam needed a good weapon and all his skill to pull it off. He pocketed a box of rounds and walked into the sun for fifty meters. He sipped from the camelback as he surveyed the makeshift rifle range. A far cry from the thousand-meter range at Ft. Bragg, but it would do. He pulled three foot-long sticks out of the bag and tied them together two inches from the end with some more string. He then spread the other ends out and planted them in the ground to serve as a rest. The binoculars went on the ground next to the tripod. Sam estimated he was about five feet higher than his target. One last look up the road and he dropped into a prone position with the first rifle. He squeezed off three rounds and checked his target. Low and left. After counting the squares, he adjusted the scope. Three more rounds. Level and left. Another adjustment. Three more and all were in the center-black. A nice dime size group in a pyramid shape.

  “Like riding a bike.” Sam smiled to himself.

  He carefully set the rifle aside, rose, and picked up all his brass. He then checked the road again. All clear. Back on his belly with the satin rifle. Three rounds and Sam knew there was a problem. While his group was tight with the first rifle, it was bigger with this one. Nickel-size rather than dime. He adjusted the scope to bring him up and fired another group. The adjustment had him level and off to the right as he wanted, but the group was still large. Perhaps the barrel was not bedded properly, or the rifle had suffered a fall? He fired his last group and outlined the V-ring. Sam was disappointed. The rifle was good for anything under five-hundred meters, but he would not trust it beyond that. It might improve if he had some match-grade ammunition, but that was a luxury that he did not have. He rose and checked the crowning of the barrel. Looked okay to him. He replaced the rifle back in its case and picked up all his brass. The matte rifle and the tripod he then carried to the one-hundred meter mark. He again set up as before, and fired three groups of three at his remaining targets. When he was done, he had a dime size group about one inch above the V-ring on all targets. This rifle was ready. He proceeded to pick up all his brass, and erase any signs of his presence from the ground. On returning to the Jeep, he carefully wiped down and packed the rifles in their cases. All the brass he placed in a shopping bag. There was one target left. Sam took up a standing position ten meters away, and placed a series of double-taps into the target till the slide locked back. Chest-Head, Chest-Head. The pistol was fine, a little heavier trigger-pull than his own at home, but not enough to throw him off. He didn’t plan on using it anyway. If he needed it in the coming days it meant he had made a mistake. Sam was not one to make mistakes, but he knew it was better to be prepared. His old scoutmaster, Mr. Rutz, would be proud, he thought.

  Twenty minutes later Sam started the Jeep. The brass, targets, string and stakes were all on the seat next to him, along with a folding shovel. He had noticed a good place to bury them on the walk up the road. He had about four hours of daylight left but still waited for a snake to clear his path before he started out.

  —FIFTEEN—

  The state of Iowa holds 8,546 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 5,725 are repeat offenders.

  His name was Leonard Ping. Of all the names that had made the list, his was never far from the top. Ping was a serial killer charged with twelve murders that had taken place over nineteen years ago. The fact that he had yet to be found guilty of any of them made Sam’s blood boil. He was currently awaiting trial in Orange County, California, as he had been for the past seven years. There was no real end in sight.

  The envelope Sam had in his suitcase was thick with articles and clippings covering Ping’s years of thwarting the justice system. Paul had wanted to just include the highlights, but Sam had insisted on including it all to show the sheer volume and expanse the system had allowed itself to be manipulated by this murderer of children. Sam had remembered being disgusted years ago when he had first heard of the case. The years of waiting must have been torture for the families.r />
  Ping, born of a Hong Kong businessman and an American interpreter, was raised in a strict household and wanted for little. His father ruled with an iron hand, and Ping frequently suffered from his lack of patience. After high school, he escaped his family’s home in San Francisco and attended the University of Georgia to study biology. Pets were his only friends growing up and Ping thought he might become a veterinarian. But the south was not kind to him. Small in stature and lacking any assertiveness, he was a loner. His grades dropped and he was forced to drop out. Deeming him a failure and embarrassment to the family, his father refused to allow him home, so Ping found himself cut off and alone. With few options, Ping joined the Army, and was assigned to an infantry division as a cook. The blatant deference to authority did not mesh with Ping’s developing rebellious nature, and he was often the subject of discipline from his superiors. Within a year Ping was charged, along with two other misfit soldiers, for raiding a motor pool. Rather than face a court-martial, he fled to California. His mother supported him for some time until his father discovered it and cut off the funds. At this point Ping turned to growing and dealing drugs at the small cabin he had acquired in the mountains of northern California. Here Ping drew into himself and had less and less contact with the outside world. He began digging tunnels and rooms from the basement of the cabin, mostly to grow marijuana. Except for one room.

  In this room Ping brought his victims: individual women, whole families. He took advantage of the opportunities that presented, and spent as little time as possible away from his cabin. The women he used for sex, often videotaping the encounter. Some lasted for weeks, some for no more than a day. Already a prolific digger, Ping buried the bodies of his victims in the hills surrounding the cabin. Ping did not trust his own memory as to the location of the numerous sites, and wanted to avoid digging twice, so he kept a detailed map. The children were simply buried with the parents. This went on for more than two years.

  A pair of hikers and their dog were credited for ending the killings. When the dog brought them a shoe with a decomposing foot still inside, the hikers reported it to the police, who sent officers to investigate. Ping had long since purchased a police scanner, and was gone hours before the police arrived. Taking a large amount of cash and a hidden motorcycle, he fled to Canada. Eight months later he was jailed in Calgary for theft. Refusing to cooperate with Canadian authorities resulted in his prints being sent to the United States data base. Warrants had been issued for Ping on twelve counts of murder and numerous drug charges. In the Canadian prison, Ping’s intelligence began to show. If he had been charged with just the drug offenses, extradition would have been swift. However, the Canadian Government is reluctant to extradite people if there is a possibility they will be considered for the death penalty. On hearing this, Ping immersed himself in the prison library. With nothing else to do he became an accomplished jailhouse lawyer and managed to delay extradition for six years. Finally returned to California, he began a series of courtroom and jailhouse moves to delay his trial repeatedly. Ping often fired his court-appointed attorney when a trial date approached, and the judge was forced to grant the new lawyer time to review the case. This went on and on as the judge was forced, by the law, to bow to Ping’s motions. He had delayed a trial date twice since the beginning for the simplest of excuses, once for a claim of sickness, the other when he broke his glasses while in the holding cell. At last report the glasses were new, and Ping was back in the courtroom. It had been nineteen years since the killings. The state had spent over fourteen million dollars on the case so far. No trial date had been set. The families were still waiting for justice. With any luck, Sam would give it to them.

  He couldn’t wait to see the new glasses.

  * * *

  Jack squinted into the desert sun. The scene of the explosion was hot and windy. The string grid was laid out over a fifty-square-yard area. Officers were slowly picking through the squares. The sun shone off the hundred or so Petri dishes placed to protect the evidence from the wind until it could be cataloged, photographed, and bagged. A technician in a nearby van entered the information into a computer as it left the scene. He would soon have a good picture of the scene, complete down to the last shard of metal.

  “We’ve already uploaded the pieces we found so far to the Bomb Data Center. No hits yet, but we keep adding to it. The ATF Arson and Explosives Repository will wait till we’re done collecting. It’ll take some time. We still have to do full body X-rays on the last two bodies; the first two were full of metal. Some of it bomb making material.”

  Jack turned to look at the Las Vegas Police Chief. A stocky man in a fight with his waistline, he had a reputation of being a hard man. Still sporting a Marine Corps haircut, he ran his department as if he was still in. He must be doing the job since had been in office for eight years. His people jumped when he spoke.

  “Thanks, Chief. Appreciate the job your people are doing. I had no idea what a mess this is,” Jack said.

  The Chief looked the scene over slowly. “That it is, haven’t seen a bomb site in awhile. Oh, we get kids playing with Molotov cocktails out in the desert, or the occasional redneck pipe bomb, but nothing like this. Reminds me of Beirut.”

  Jack nodded in agreement. He had seen similar scenes. “Anything from the man’s crew?”

  “Bastards kept their mouths shut at first. You could tell they had an idea who may have done it, and wanted to take care of business themselves. Claimed no knowledge of the guns in the trunk or on the bodies. Changed their tune when we told them about the claim in the paper, and gave me a history of their activities over the last few days. Nothing significant, just a weekend of fun centered around the fight on Friday night. I imagine there’ll be trouble for these boys in LA once they get back to town and start deciding who’s in charge now.”

  Which will break the killer’s heart, Jack thought to himself. Smart. Turn them against each other. Something the Bureau did with mobsters when the opportunity rose. Not officially, of course.

  He paused to watch a technician wrap a road sign in plastic before he pulled it from the ground. It had a least four holes in it that Jack could make out from this distance. The crews would pick up every piece of metal they could see, and then go over the area with metal detectors to get the rest. It would be days until they had it all, if they ever did.

  “Did you get any film of the crowd, Chief?” Jack asked.

  The Chief just grunted and led him off toward the van. He knocked on the side with the butt of his radio, and a young man with a spiked haircut opened the door. He slid a pair of headphones off and looked at the Chief. Loud rock could easily be heard.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  Jack took in the unexpected sight of the young man. He looked as if he had just gotten out of high school and his hair held what looked to be a full tube of gel. An earring dangled from his ear and tattoos adorned both forearms. His small Police T-shirt was baggy, and his khaki pants needed an iron. He sat in front of a wall of electronic gear with an expensive laptop open in front of him. Jack turned to look at the Chief.

  “My son, Eric,” the Chief explained. “Graduates from college next year. MIT. Computers are his thing. Takes after his mother,” he added.

  “Hello, Eric, Jack Randall, FBI.” Jack stuck out his hand.

  “Yes, sir!” Eric grabbed his hand and shook it aggressively. “I’m a fan. Russian mob case. I watched every minute. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “He needs to see the film of the crowd that showed up at the scene,” the Chief prompted.

  “Right, I have it right here. I gave your people a copy earlier.” Eric quickly replaced the scene map he was working on, and called up the video of the scene. Jack was disappointed by the number of faces he saw. Having Profit’s crew watch this for familiar faces would be a long shot at best. They could run it through the FBI’s facial recognition software to see if any felons were in the crowd, but the technology was still in the infant stages and not exa
ctly reliable. But you never knew. Jack watched for a minute to be polite, and then thanked the boy and left as technicians were waiting to check in evidence.

  Jack put his hands in his pockets and strolled back toward the scene. He was thinking about what Sydney had said. He turned his head to look toward the strip. Anywhere between here, he turned and looked at the airport, and there.

  “Hey, Chief, how about a ride to the airport?”

  * * *

  “What’s the verdict, Tom?” Stacie asked the skinny man as she walked into his office.

  Tom visibly jumped in his seat. Stacie’s voice was always at the maximum decibels she could produce. Something he was sure she did just to mess with him. He was a man who liked it quiet. Classical music at low volume was as far as he usually went. Most people in the department thought he became a pathologist because the patients didn’t speak.

  He calmly removed his glasses and gave Stacie his usual answer; it was a little game they liked to play.

  “They’re all dead,” he replied. His gaze fell on the young woman who had accompanied her. Her shirt read FBI. Must be her former protégé she had mentioned was coming. The woman stuck out her hand.

  “Sydney Lewis, FBI.”

  Tom nodded as he shook her hand. “Stacie’s friend. You’re working the bombing I understand?”

  “Yes, can you tell us anything?”

  “We have all the pieces matched up to their owners. The main target suffered the most damage, both from the initial blast, and the subsequent fire.” He pulled photos from a file. “As you can see here, massive skull fractures from impacting the roof. Axial loading broke the neck here and here. His legs were blown off, and the right knee showed teeth marks we matched to him; so his last act was to break his own jaw. We were able to ID from a past pair of broken ribs and some dental work. Take your pick on the rest of them. Blast trauma, penetrating shrapnel, and fire. No soot in anybody’s lungs. They were all killed instantly. I did find something interesting inside the backseat passengers’ torso. Follow me.”