Sniper

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “I’ve never seen patches on a marine’s uniform . . . that’s something the army does.”

  “We all had leather flight jackets. We sewed unit patches on them and wore them when we were off duty.”

  “Do you think . . . ”

  “That it’s from our sniper? I don’t know, but it’s too much of a coincidence.”

  Anne was silent.

  Houston said, “This sonuvabitch must be someone who knows me.”

  5

  “Urban sniper movement can be a bitch to solve . . . ”

  —Gunnery Sergeant Jack Coughlin, USMC

  After a miserable night filled with tossing and thrashing around the bed, Houston glanced at the clock—4 a.m.—and got up. Frustrated from his restless night, he decided to go to the precinct early. Houston always had trouble sleeping the night before an important event. Even as a child, there was not a single birthday or Christmas when he had slept well. While in the Marines, he would be up all night before a deployment—it made for some very long days. He knew what the source of his excitement was; he wanted to read the crime scene reports as soon as possible. After a quick shower, Houston bolted out the door.

  By the time Houston reached the Homicide Unit office, his body screamed for a kick-start of caffeine. His first stop was at the urn in the break room for a cup of strong black coffee. Surprised to see that someone had already made a pot, he filled a disposable cup and walked out of the coffee mess to his desk, which was occupied. Barry Newton sat in his chair, feet resting on the open right-hand top drawer. A visitor’s chair stood beside the desk, and Houston dropped into it. “You’re in early.”

  “I’ve been in the lab all night. I knew you’d be in a rush to see my preliminary report, so I figured what the hell, may as well drop off copies for you and Dysart.” A manila envelope lay on the desktop to his right. “There’s your copy. I put Dysart’s in his mailbox. He’ll want to distribute it at the morning muster.”

  Houston noticed the puffiness around Barry’s eyes and the red lines running through them. “Trying to get a jump on the screamers, huh?”

  “You betcha. There won’t be a shortage of people clamoring for a quick solution on this one. The heat—and I’m not referring to the weather—will be scorching by noon. Did you and Anne catch lead on this?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’ll probably find out at the morning muster. So now that you’ve spent all night on this thing, what’ve you got?”

  “Squat.”

  “What do you mean squat?”

  “All things considered, the scene was clean. Other than the single shell casing I showed you, we don’t have a hell of a lot of physical evidence. But I think we can forget about terrorists—they’d be falling all over themselves telling everyone that they did this. Is that enough squat for you? I can go on.”

  “So you’re saying that we’re starting from scratch on this? All we really know is that there’s a shooter who’s popping people because he or she can?”

  Barry dropped his feet to the floor and picked up Houston’s coffee. “That summarizes it. From now on, it looks like this one belongs to you guys. I’ll get the final forensics report to you as soon as we get something back from the labs.” He stood up and waved. “See you around. I’m going to get some sleep.” He pointed at the thick envelope. “There’s your preliminary report.” He walked away with Houston’s coffee.

  “Hey, that’s my coffee!”

  “And a mighty fine cup of coffee it is.” Without looking back, Barry raised his left arm in farewell and disappeared around the corner.

  Houston heard the exit door slam behind Newton and then returned to the break area and poured another cup of coffee. Back at his desk, he opened the file.

  Barry had been busy. The report was twenty pages long—a lot of work to show they had squat. Houston believed that only two types of organizations on Earth could use twenty sheets of paper to say they have nothing—police departments and the military. He read the prelim crime scene reports, paying close attention to what little physical evidence the crime scene technicians had found, which mostly consisted of rubber samples from the van’s tires.

  He was still reading when Anne walked into the squad room two hours later. She flopped into the visitor’s chair and picked up the pages he had stacked facedown on the desk. “You’re in early.”

  “Couldn’t sleep . . . ”

  “Me either.”

  “Save me some time.” She held up Barry’s report. “What we got?”

  “To quote Barry: squat.”

  “Great. So where do we start?”

  “The usual place, the eye witnesses.”

  “When did you get a witness list?”

  “I didn’t, but I’m sure Dysart will hand one out during the morning muster.”

  She stood, picked up his coffee and sipped on it as she carried the preliminary report to her desk.

  “Hey, that’s my coffee!”

  She looked over her shoulder and grinned while holding the disposable cup in a mock toast. “And a mighty fine cup of coffee it is.”

  Houston and Anne were the last people to enter the muster room. Uniformed and plain-clothes cops filled the chairs, so they stood against the wall at the back of the room. Anne nudged him. “Think one of Boston’s finest will be gentleman enough to give a lady his seat?”

  Houston smiled and bent over so his head was close to her ear. “That would open them up to a sexual harassment suit.”

  “There are times when equality isn’t all it’s made out to be.”

  Capt. William Dysart stopped talking and looked at Anne and Houston. “Are you two finished playing footsie?”

  Anne blushed when Houston said, “Sorry, Captain, she just can’t resist my animal charm—you know how it is.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. But I’m sure you’ll explain it to me one of these days.” Everyone in the briefing room laughed.

  When Dysart turned away, Houston settled against the wall and folded his arms.

  “Okay, people,” the captain ordered, “settle down. I don’t have to tell you that someone has handed us a ball of fire. The mayor, the city council, and the press have been all over me since yesterday afternoon. I think the politicians hope some whacked out terrorist group will take credit for this. That way they can bring pressure on the top cop to turn this over to the Feds. If she knuckles under, so be it. Until that time, this is our case and we need it closed PDQ, understood?”

  A murmur of agreement rolled through the room.

  “I’ve assigned Houston and Bouchard lead on this one, but I expect everyone in this room to be in on it. The mayor has threatened to castrate somebody if we don’t solve this before his upcoming reelection campaign, and that begins in a little over a month. The mayor was very clear on one point: if he goes down over this, he ain’t going alone. Needless to say that made the brass as scared as a rat in a room full of pythons.” Dysart held up the morning edition of the Boston Daily Liberal. The headlines were large and bold enough to read from the back of the room: SECOND BOSTON MASSACRE! SNIPER KILLS FOUR!

  “I don’t have to tell you that the sharks in the media smell fresh meat. Let’s ensure that we don’t become chum for them, okay?

  “So, let’s look at what we have here. An unknown perp, or perps, pulls up beside the Common and in less than two minutes we have four dead or dying. Forensics says the weapon was a .308 caliber, at least a cartridge of that caliber was the only one found at the scene. The van was a white Chevy, Ford, or Dodge, which is no help at all. If you aren’t aware of it, in the US white is the most popular color for commercial vans. So to sum it up, I figure our suspect pool is roughly equivalent to the adult population of eastern Massachusetts. Solving this one should be a piece of cake.” Dysart turned to the watch commander. “Hand out the witness lists and copies of the prelim forensics report and then they’re all yours.”

  As he passed abreast of Houston and Anne, Dysart beckoned them to come with him. Onc
e they were inside the captain’s office, he closed the door and, while walking to his desk, said, “I’m going to get to the point. I want you two to drop everything else on your plate and run this case—for a couple of reasons. First, you’re the most relentless detectives I got. No matter what, you two won’t back off, not from the mayor, the brass, or the press. My second reason is you, Mike. Because of your military background you know how these goddamned shooters think . . . possibly better than anyone on the force. I want a quick close on this, but don’t blow up half the city doing it. I’m counting on you to bring this shooter, or shooters, down. I’ll never admit this outside this room, but if the phrase dead or alive ever applied to a situation, this is it. Am I clear?”

  Houston started for the door. “We’ll get him. Now can we get on the street and earn our keep?”

  “Yeah, get out of here, but I want daily updates.”

  Houston knew the order was directed to Anne.

  “Twice daily and three times a day on weekends and holidays,” she said.

  “I knew I could count on you. Now take this scurvy burnout and get to work.”

  Houston and Anne’s first stop was the Marriott Long Wharf on the waterfront. Because he hated city traffic, Houston let Anne drive. She parked in front of the hotel and waved her badge under the valet parking attendant’s nose.

  “It better be here when I come out,” she warned.

  Houston suppressed a grin. He knew she got a charge out of flashing her credentials at parking attendants and beating the outrageous downtown-Boston parking fees.

  According to information collected at the scene, one eyewitness—Peter Blackman—was registered there. What the report did not say was which room.

  The front-desk clerk was reluctant to release any information and vacillated. Houston waved his identification. “Are you ready to face the consequences of obstructing a murder investigation?”

  The clerk suddenly relented. “Mr. and Mrs. Blackman are in room 512.”

  Before Houston and Anne took the elevator to the fifth floor, he cautioned the clerk. “If you call them, I’ll take you in . . . understood?”

  “Y-y-yes, sir . . . ”

  During the elevator ride, Houston saw Anne grin.

  “What?”

  “You sure are a tough guy. I thought he was about to crap himself.”

  Houston was still chuckling when they reached the fifth floor and the door opened.

  Anne knocked on the door. “Boston police.” The door opened as far as the security chain allowed and a portly man with unruly hair peered through the gap between the door and the frame. Either they had awakened him or he had not been up very long.

  In a parody of Houston’s actions at the front desk, Anne flashed her credentials before the man’s eyes. “Peter Blackman?”

  The fat man nodded.

  “Boston police. We’d like to talk to you about yesterday,” Anne said.

  “I already told the other officers everything I saw,” he said.

  Anne’s cheeks flushed and her left eyebrow twitched. A sure sign his reluctance to open the door was not going well with her. Houston tried to suppress a smirk and failed. If Blackman didn’t open the door soon he was going feel the full force of Anne’s temper. However, she kept her cool. “Yes, sir, I’m sure you did. But after the initial interview, witnesses often remember small things that may help.”

  Houston wasn’t sure whether it was her badge or the don’t give me any crap tone in her voice that convinced Blackman to let them inside. As soon as he removed the chain and opened the door, Houston charged in. He strode across the room to the sliding glass door and pulled the drapes aside. The room had a superior view of the waterfront; across the plaza people crowded in front of the New England Aquarium as they waited for the doors to open. Houston wondered what a room with this view cost per night.

  A voice from the bathroom broke his reverie. “Who’s here, sweetheart?”

  Blackman started like a surprised cat. Houston glanced at Anne.

  “The police . . . ”

  “Ask her to come out,” Anne said.

  “She may not be decent.”

  Anne yanked the bedspread from the unmade bed. “Give her this.”

  Before Blackman could take the spread from Anne, the bathroom door opened and a beautiful blonde wearing a terry-cloth hotel robe stepped out of the bathroom. Her freshly washed hair was wrapped in a towel, and her face was rosy from the shower.

  Houston thought that she looked nothing like someone who would call Blackman sweetheart. There was no way the young beauty was married to him. He gave Blackman a knowing look.

  The woman stopped abruptly with a worried look.

  “This is Carolyn.”

  Houston doubted that was her real name; most likely she was one of Boston’s more expensive escorts. When a woman works her way up to the thousand-bucks-a-night range, she is an escort—no longer a hooker.

  “Mike,” Anne said, “why don’t you take Mr. Blackman downstairs for coffee while Carolyn and I have a chat?”

  Blackman took a rumpled Hawaiian shirt from the back of a chair and pulled it over his head, hiding his cherry-red face for a second.

  After the men departed the room, Anne sat in the vacant chair. She said nothing, but maintained unyielding eye contact with the young woman. Finally, Anne spoke. “Want to get it out on the table?”

  The blonde stared at her for a second. “Are you referring to the fact that Peter and I aren’t Mr. and Mrs.?”

  “Among other things.”

  The woman sat and searched through her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” she asked Anne.

  “Even if I didn’t, in Massachusetts it’s illegal to smoke in a hotel room. Nevertheless, if you can afford the $250 the hotel fines, go ahead and light up.”

  “Like I give a damn, Peter’s paying for the room . . . and he’s loaded.” Carolyn’s hands shook as she fumbled a cigarette from the package. “Besides, I have a feeling I’m in deeper shit than an illegal smoking beef.” She took a cigarette from the pack and slid a book of matches out of the cellophane wrapper. She pulled one free and struck it. The match ignited with a loud hiss. Carolyn inhaled deep as the flame touched the cigarette.

  “Let’s get one thing straight right now, shall we? I’m here investigating a mass murder, I don’t give a damn about any working relationship you may have with Peter Blackman.”

  Carolyn visibly relaxed. “How can I help you?”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Nothing. I was supposed to meet Peter at a bar. I arrived early and decided to have a drink. Then I saw half the cops in Boston racing toward the Common.”

  “You can prove that?”

  “Prove it? Are you implying I had something to do with this?”

  “No, I’m just covering all possible angles.”

  Carolyn sucked on her cigarette. “I think so. The bartender should remember me. A guy kept hitting on me and he intervened.”

  “Okay, we’ll check it out. Where was the bar?”

  “Statler’s Lounge, in the Park Plaza on Arlington Street.”

  “I know it well . . . ”

  Houston led Blackman to the hotel’s restaurant. They got a table next to the window and ordered coffees. When Houston took out his notebook and pen, Blackman started to whine. “I don’t know why I got to go through this all over again.”

  “Look, Blackman, if you work with me there won’t be any reason for us to have to go through the hassle of getting subpoenas and bringing you and your wife back to town.”

  When he heard the words wife and subpoena in the same sentence, all the blood drained from Blackman’s face.

  “She’s a real looker, quite the knockout.”

  “Who is?”

  “Mrs. Blackman. Who’d you think I was talking about?”

  “Look, detective—”

  “Houston.”

  Blackman bent forward, as if breaking a sacred trust
or revealing an international secret. “Officer Houston, I got a bit of a situation here—Carolyn isn’t my wife.”

  “No! You don’t say?”

  “If word got back to my wife—”

  “You should have thought about that before you started screwing around with a high-priced hooker. If you tell us everything you remember about yesterday, we’ll do our best to keep your love trysts out of our report.”

  Blackman knew he was screwed. He stared into his coffee mug and nodded. Houston always admired a man who could lose gracefully and, unless he missed his guess, Peter Blackman was experiencing the first of many losses. “Now, who’s the hooker?”

  “Her name’s Carolyn McGuire. She’s from an escort service. I make business trips to Boston two, sometimes three times a year, and we have an arrangement.”

  “If it’s any consolation to you, you needn’t worry about being busted on a prostitution or solicitation rap—either of you. My partner and I got bigger fish to reel in than some john and his expensive hooker. Are we straight on that?”

  Blackman nodded again. “Does that mean my wife won’t learn of this?”

  “Not from me or my partner.”

  When Blackman sipped his coffee, his hands shook so much that he spilled half of it. “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with when you were at the Common.”

  “I got there at a little past eleven yesterday morning.” He paused for a heartbeat and then said, “I’ve always enjoyed walking on the Common. I’d just finished my last business appointment for the day and I called Carolyn and arranged for us to meet.

  “I was standing near the corner of Charles and Boylston Streets looking at some of the old headstones in the Central Burying Ground, when a white van drove by real slow. It stopped on the corner of Charles and Beacon, quite a ways from me. Seconds later, I heard three pops, one after another, then a brief pause and a final one. I thought a car had backfired until I heard people screaming and saw everyone running. The driver floored it and took off—he really mashed the accelerator too.”