Wolf's Cut (The Nick Lupo Series Book 5)

by W. D. Gagliani

  Lupo worried about the day he needed DiSanto to forget something he saw, and the younger cop refused. Then what?

  He had to put the worry aside.

  Worry… Sometimes it seemed that was all he ever did. At times, protecting Jessie was the only thing on his mind, despite the challenges of protecting someone who insisted on living six hours away. If the tribe had never built that damn new hospital, he might have convinced her to move down south with him. As it was, he had to make the best of it. As they had just done once again.

  He tried to clear his mind, but echoes of what he had found in the storage space lingered. All those files, from so long ago. They were from another world, not only another time. They were a link to a man who hadn’t been his father, not that he could recognize. There was research to be done and gaps to fill in. Maybe it had to be done in a hurry. Maybe somebody else had a stake in that space, in all those files.

  He took a long breath and accelerated around a struggling semi, then drifted off to the right and left slower traffic behind.

  Focus!

  DiSanto’s call. Another bus shooting. He forced himself to return to the mindset he used when on a case.

  The bus thing was just too strange. It was getting out of hand, wasn’t it? Random crimes happened all the time on county buses, which was why there were cameras, and private security guards riding some of the routes at certain times of day, mostly coinciding with the school day.

  But this, this was different. Had all the markings of a guy clearly working out some sort of issue, a gripe he held against someone or…an institution? But he’d graduated from random shootings to mass murder now?

  Why?

  Lupo shook his head.

  There might be some evidence left on the bus, some sort of lead as to what the perp was trying to do, or what he thought he was doing, and then they’d have a direction to go in rather than barking up all the wrong trees and waiting for the bastard to strike again. Goddamn, there was so much of that, waiting for something terrible to happen, that you almost started to wish it would just so you might have a shot at some evidence or clue that would lead you right to the asshole doing the shooting.

  On the other hand, a big case might be just what he needed right now.

  It might take some of the heat off him, some heat off the mystery of the missing cop and psychologist, so it might actually be helpful to have all hands on deck with this. Though…nobody wanted to see innocents gunned down—or run down—for some whack-job’s own DIY therapy.

  Which reminded him, he had an appointment with Anders tomorrow.

  Maybe he could get out of it.

  Maybe there’d be more bus shootings.

  He became aware of Ghost Sam again, the gauze-like presence in the passenger seat, who was looking at him with what might have been a cross between disgust and pity.

  “Sure, easy for you to pass judgment, Sam. I bet you get extra credit.”

  Ghost Sam said nothing, but when Lupo looked over his shoulder the apparition was gone. Or his mind had turned out the light. He wondered often if he really saw the ghost of Sam Waters, or if he conjured up the image in some perverted self-destructive maneuver.

  He chuckled and shrugged. If he was going crazy, then so be it.

  He pointed his car onto the ramp and gave himself over to the music, the new Steve Hackett disc he’d been carrying around but hadn’t put on his iPod yet.

  He lost himself in the swirling acoustic guitar opening and tried to put everything else out of his mind until he reached the scene. It was the closest he could come to a Zen approach to the complexities.

  He waited for Ghost Sam to show up again and mock him, but he didn’t.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lupo

  “Christ on a crutch,” Lupo said when he got there.

  Two police choppers and a local station’s bird were circling above the tall buildings. The TAC Squad was still piling equipment into their black van.

  Probably dejected they didn’t get to hunt anyone down.

  Uniforms armed with semi-auto rifles had been posted on street corners for a half mile in every direction. DiSanto was nearby, coordinating another group of uniforms before starting a canvass of witnesses. He waved, then got on with it. It was Homicide’s turn.

  He waited for the fire department guys to finish with their cutting equipment. He figured it was the Jaws of Life, or something like it. They’d used whatever it was to saw through the jagged metal crap that was blocking most of the bus’s front door. The cop Voltanek had been able to stick his head and half his body inside, enough to take a look around and realize he needed to call in, but not much more than that. He was standing off to the side now, shaken.

  Lupo approached him, nodding a greeting. They’d previously met at several crime scenes, but nothing like this. Voltanek was a veteran who’d been around, but Lupo noted that his hands shook a little now.

  “Lew…”

  “Hey, Detective Lupo. Hell of a thing here. Fucking crazy.” He looked like he wanted a drink.

  Lupo sympathized, but he’d seen so much since the Wolfpaw mercenaries had invaded his life that he doubted this one would be so shocking.

  He squeezed through the jacked door and came face-to-face with the driver, who’d been shot in the head from behind. He’d died in the driver’s seat, most of his brain and face splattered all over the windshield. His lifeless body sprawled over the steering wheel, his foot locked on the accelerator, the dead driver had turned the bus into a huge battering ram and his dead hands on the tiller guided it right through the corner where the doomed riders waited.

  Standing inside the wrecked door, his eyes roved backward from the driver’s seat. There were several more victims on the bus, he realized. At least four people, maybe five, were sprawled in various grotesque poses of death, their arms and legs bent at unnatural angles. The smell of feces was strong, wrestling with the metallic tang of drying blood. There were gummy splatters throughout the inside, some covering the seats and side windows.

  No one was alive, obviously, and now the crime scene techs would have to take over.

  From what he could tell, the damage indicated a large caliber weapon, like a .44 Magnum. No brass was visible from where he stood, supporting the likelihood of a large-frame revolver. The shooter had probably walked up the aisle and shot passengers one at a time, reaching the driver and then shooting him, too. Then the bus had gone out of control and barreled down the street, swerving to the right and finally sweeping over that last bus stop and continuing on into the intersection until the semi stopped it.

  Lupo could see it happening, a rider way in back drawing the gun from a holster or bag and, before anyone could become aware of it, shot the next passenger forward of where he was.

  Or her. But that wasn’t likely. Most mass murderers, statistically, have been male.

  Then he made his way forward, shooting as he went, the driver probably trying to figure out what was happening in his mirror, until he became the last victim.

  Had to have happened just blocks away, already in the downtown area.

  He turned and stepped down off the bus.

  DiSanto was still talking to uniforms near the wrecked semi. Other cops were holding gawkers as far away as possible with hastily erected barricades. TV news vans were starting to line up down both streets. Nearby medical personnel had given up on the semi driver and were waiting to hear from Lupo regarding the bus. He shook his head and they went off to join the other EMTs who were dealing with the victims on the sidewalk, where things didn’t look all that much better.

  The crime scene guys had arrived and Lupo waved them on in. It was like a crowd surrounding the vehicle, approaching from all sides. Wearing their suits over their regular clothing, and latex gloves, they descended on the bus and started squeezing into the doorway. It looked like the set of a science fiction movie about weird viruses taking over the world.

  “Hell of a mess in there.”

  Ghost
Sam was back, hovering near the bus entrance, as always unseen by any of the people who went to work on the crime scene.

  Lupo nodded brusquely. He had become aware of his tendency to respond to Sam and how others looked at him when he did. He had to be careful. Cops who talked to themselves in public made people nervous.

  “Wasn’t there a shooting on a county bus last month?” Sam persisted.

  Lupo nodded again. The shooter had dived out the back door and disappeared, leaving a passenger dead and a group of witnesses traumatized.

  The driver had testified that the shooter had picked a quarrel with him regarding the fare, then had screamed and shouted at the passengers until a well-dressed office worker had braced him in an effort to shove him off the bus—an effort in which the driver had not helped—and that was when the shooter had pulled a gun and killed the office worker. The perp had worn some sort of mask under a hoodie. His screams had been reported as ravings, incoherent, and crazy. Two functional on-board cameras had caught a fuzzy image of the guy, but he’d been careful to avoid facing them and the third camera was damaged, so all they really had was his back.

  “These might be related,” Ghost Sam said, “but not in the way you think.”

  Lupo thought Ghost Sam was plugged into whatever plane it was that afforded him a look beyond what normals saw, but he tended toward riddles.

  Since he wasn’t real, Lupo figured, he had to interpret what the ghost meant whenever he made pronouncements.

  DiSanto was now working his way through the crowd of onlookers along with a dozen uniforms. Lupo surveyed the people’s faces, too. He’d had experience with the perp hanging around to gloat or get a charge out of the cops’ work, but what were the odds of that happening again?

  With the canvassers and the techs going about their work, Lupo stood by and lent them the weight of his thinking. His eyes roved over the outside of the bus, examining the shattered glass windows, the blood splatters in and out of the bus itself. The three blue bubble camera housings were all shot to hell, he noticed. Have to find out about those. He was almost certain the recorded video could be viewed remotely via wi-fi, but he wasn’t sure if it was buffered on board or streamed directly off the bus. There would be nothing after the slugs took out the housings and lenses, but before that? Maybe.

  Something told him it wouldn’t be that simple. Probably the shooter had a way to remain anonymous, even on camera.

  He became aware that someone was still standing near him. “What do you think, Sam?” he muttered. “What about those connections? Why keep this shit to yourself? Is that what you call help wherever you are?”

  Suddenly he spotted Sam’s image at the other end of the bus, his arms akimbo.

  Shit.

  He turned and it was Voltanek who was standing near him.

  Voltanek stared at him, his eyes still shocked—but was it from the horror of the scene, or because Lupo was talking to himself?

  “What?” he barked. “You got something, Vol?”

  “Uh, no, I was just lookin’ at the mess and you were obviously busy…”

  Busy being crazy, I get it.

  Lupo started to speak, to defend his babbling, then stopped.

  The thought hit him like a blast of cold air.

  What the hell had happened to the shooter?

  If he’d shot everybody, including the driver, how had he gotten off the fuckin’ bus?

  “Vol, what if the guy was still aboard? Did you look at every vic’s body?”

  “Uh, no… I—I couldn’t get in, and it was such a mess, I didn’t want to contaminate…”

  Fuck!

  “What if he was still aboard, blood on him, and somehow got off with the techs?” They had been traipsing in and out of the bus.

  “Jesus, Lupo!”

  “Do we know all the techs? Do they all know each other?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Start checking. Wait, did you let in any EMTs before I got in there?”

  Voltanek shook his head. His neck was like a bull’s. “No…but there were a couple hanging around the door. I sent them to check on people in the street since they couldn’t get through the fucked-up door.”

  “Yeah, unless one or both of them had just come off the bus.”

  “Shit, I never thought of that…”

  “Don’t worry, it’s a long shot. Check into whether you can spot this couple you saw, they might still be hanging around.”

  “I think they got into an ambulance and left, Lupo.”

  Shit. It would have taken some amazing timing, but maybe they’d pulled it off.

  “Okay, here’s what you do. Check on that, make sure they did leave. Also, get a bunch of uniforms and hit all the businesses on Water Street from here and heading north. Start checking security cameras for anything at all. If anyone won’t cooperate, make a list and we’ll get warrants. Then… Well, start with that.”

  “Sure, Lupo.” He stalked off, giving Lupo a respite and allowing him to spot Ghost Sam a few yards away.

  Lupo started a list in his head.

  DiSanto

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that the shooter was standing nearby, watching the aftermath of his handiwork.

  For one thing, God knew it had happened before, to both him and Lupo, not realizing that the perp they were looking for was hanging around, getting his jollies from the chaos and death and destruction. Pyromaniacs worked that way standard, but psychopaths were too complex. Some of them did it, while others liked being safely away from the action.

  What kind was this one?

  DiSanto worked the crowd along with the extra uniforms, taking statements, jotting down names and addresses.

  Occasionally he watched Lupo as he worked the bus and the fringes of the bus area, where the metal monster had come to rest.

  He’d bet a kidney Lupo would get the task force. He was senior, sure, but he was experienced and decorated—a freaking hero—and possessed a cross enough personality that would translate well on camera, always looking annoyed at the questions. He always looked a little harried, a little under-shaved, a bit too sleep-deprived. He was a natural.

  DiSanto had learned to cover for Lupo quite a bit, and Lupo took advantage altogether too often.

  “Can you tell me anything more?” he asked a woman who was bundled in a coat much too heavy for the coolness. What if she had an explosive vest under that…?

  Nah.

  She was shaking her head, taking his card, shuffling away.

  He was a little bitter right then.

  Hell, I’ve earned the right to a little bitterness.

  Lupo

  The new head of the homicide squad, Lieutenant Antoine Ryeland, made his way to the center of the crime scene, wading through the crowd.

  He was impossible to miss.

  Over six and a half feet tall, African-American, of such impossibly wide shoulders that he was forced to wear custom suits, all of them luxurious. On the day he had taken command Lupo had privately compared him to Shaq. The guy was that big. He towered over DiSanto and most of the other detectives, and though Lupo was himself a large man, Ryeland still had him by probably sixty pounds. All muscle, from what Lupo could tell.

  As soon as he’d arrived, he had immediately given the veteran homicide cops latitude, backing, funding, and most important, his attention. For the most part, the detectives had quickly realized that he was less likely to bend under political pressure than a long series of previous captains and lieutenants. So far Ryeland had lived up to that expectation, but if there was a case in which pressure would be brought to bear quickly and ruthlessly, this would be it. Anything that scared the public was considered toxic in the department—you had to contain it or lose favor so fast the blood would rush to your head while sitting in your chair.

  Ryeland found Lupo and stalked up. He was wearing a raincoat and an old-fashioned fedora, an affectation that looked so right no one had griped about it.

  “This is worse than the l
ast one,” he said without preamble. “We’re gonna hear about it.”

  “Yeah,” said Lupo.

  “I don’t imagine you’ve got anything like a lead yet, do you?” He squinted sideways at Lupo.

  “We got the lab techs in the bus now, but it’s a mess. Probably like DNA soup. Never be able to tell much about any one specific person, unless they can separate all the samples and a long shot gets us a match. I’m not very confident.”

  “No. I would guess not.”

  “But I do have a cop who thinks two EMTs who were near the bus early on may have left. I figure it could be that one or both was disguised, but dressed as an EMT and just faded off the bus. Only thing, the bus door was a mess. They might have had a hard time getting on, or off. If they were legit, they had to wait. And if so, why leave so soon?”

  Ryeland nodded. “Follow it up.”

  “Voltanek’s on it. Also, I need some muscle behind a canvass of private security cameras all around this intersection, and I figure going back a mile, mile and a half on Water.”

  “All of them?” Ryeland blew out a puff of breath. “That’s a lot of people to approach.”

  “Not all of them have cameras anyway. And if you just show them a picture of the crime scene, they’ll forget all about stone-walling.”

  “Anything else?” Ryeland seemed to be all business. Lupo imagined there would be no problem getting camera footage from anyone who had any.

  Lupo combed his long hair with one hand. “One more thing.” He pointed at the TV trucks that had been pulling out just outside the cordon, on-air talent handing microphones around as they began interviewing witnesses. “When you make a statement, ask that anyone with cell or personal camera footage of the incident or anywhere on the bus route come forward and let us take a look.”

  “Good, that’s worth a try. Not really tourist season, so I doubt it will help, but…”

  “You never know,” Lupo finished. “If we had some of that facial recognition software handy, maybe—”

  “I’ve requested it as part of a system-wide upgrade. If we need it, we can get the Feds to lend a hand.”