Sniper

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “I know you do. We all do.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I want this guy. I’m not going to mess with Miranda rights, courts or due process, just him and me and Old Testament eye-for-an-eye justice. I want him in my sights.”

  He knew that she shared his anger—this case had taken on an entirely new dynamic. It had become personal.

  They saw Barry Newton standing on the sidewalk across Comm Avenue, away from his crime scene team. He was talking with a couple of uniforms. Anne started walking to him and after a second, Houston followed.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  Newton looked at them and said, “Nothing . . . another crime scene devoid of any physical evidence. Which doesn’t surprise me. The perp never set foot outside his vehicle. According to what witnesses told the first officers on-scene, a single shot was fired from a white van . . . at the bus stop. It was one hell of a shot . . . we haven’t measured the distance yet, but I’d estimate it is over two hundred yards, through traffic.”

  “One shot, one kill,” Houston said.

  “What was that?” Barry asked.

  “Nothing, Barry, I’m rambling. Let me know if you get anything else.” Barry looked into Houston’s face. “You okay? You got the same look that was on my father’s face when someone poisoned his dog.”

  “I know the vic. Her name is Pamela Houston. Or she may be using her maiden name. It’s hard to tell what Pam would use.”

  Barry immediately made the connection. “Aw, hell, Mike, I had no idea—”

  “No reason you would. We’ve been divorced for more than six years.”

  Houston walked a few steps away and then paused, pointing to one of the uniforms. The officer puffed on a cigarette and smoke encircled his head. “Barry, you happen to notice that there’s a lot of gas on the ground?”

  Barry looked up and saw the young cop and shouted, “Hey douse that damned thing! You want to blow us all to hell?”

  Then he turned back to Houston. “Mike, as soon as I have something, you’ll know.”

  Houston turned toward the unmarked police car and heard Barry say, “Jesus, I really screwed that up.”

  “How could you have known?” Anne replied. “I’ve been his partner for five years and I wasn’t aware who she was until he told me a few minutes ago.”

  “Yeah, but knowing me and how I handle things, I’d have still messed it up somehow—I never know what to say at weddings and funerals.”

  “Don’t worry. You handled it the best you could.”

  “I hope Mike understands.”

  “He does. Right now though, I’m concerned that he seems unable to understand how he feels.”

  “That’s always the problem with male cops, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Men, especially male cops, can usually deal with anything but feelings. I guess we don’t want to be perceived as being soft . . . ” He walked to the CSU van.

  When Newton departed, Anne took her cell phone and hit a speed dial. “Captain? Bouchard. We’re at the crime scene . . . there’s been a complication.”

  Houston reached the car and realized that Anne was not with him. He turned and motioned for her to join him. She trotted across the parking lot.

  “I need to locate Susie and tell her about her mother,” he said, his voice lacking emotion.

  “I know. I already called Dysart. They’re calling BU.”

  “Thanks.” Houston stared over the roof of the car as two EMTs picked up Pam’s body, now encased in a black body bag, and placed it on a gurney. Mentally, he left the present for a place where he and his pain were the sole occupants. After several moments, he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension. Realizing that it was all for naught, he got in the car. Anne settled in behind the steering wheel.

  “Shit,” Houston said, “this is going to be hard. There were some very bad feelings after the divorce and Susie blamed me for causing most of them.”

  “Well, no kid wants to see her parents get divorced.”

  Houston snapped his head around almost as if someone had doused him with cold water while he was asleep. “I know all that, but right now I wish I’d spent more time mending fences and less time burying myself in booze and this stinking job.”

  “It’ll work out, Mike. It’s been six years and she’s older now.”

  Houston shrugged. “Either way, there isn’t anything I can do about it now.” He paused and then changed the subject. “If I wasn’t sure before, now I’m beginning to believe that our shooter is military trained.”

  “Oh, what leads you down that road?”

  “In Vietnam, in the late sixties, the Marines wanted to put some fear into the Viet Cong so they set up a sniper school. A marine named Carlos Hathcock helped found it. He had ninety-three confirmed kills in Vietnam. The instructors always emphasized that if a sniper was to survive they had to live by one basic rule—one shot, one kill. They pounded that into every student: get in, make your kill, and get out before the enemy learns what hit them. As far as we know, our shooter has followed the book and hasn’t fired a second shot at any of the victims, if the sniper doesn’t get it done with a single shot, the target gets to live.”

  “Do you think this Hathcock is our man? Lord, he’d be in his late sixties or early seventies now, not exactly a fit for the profile.”

  “No, it isn’t Hathcock—he’s dead.”

  “So where does this lead us?”

  “At this point, I don’t know. But it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that this shooter has a military background.”

  “Do you think we’ll get this guy?”

  “Either I or someone will. Random killings are a bitch—there’s no motive directly tying the shooter to the victim, only the killer knows what his or her reasoning is. Hell, look how long Bundy got away with it before he screwed up and they caught him. Our guy will screw up too. Eventually, he’ll step on his own dick—they always do. When he does, I want to be there to shoot it off.”

  “Mike, this is not a random kill. Whoever this shooter is seems to have an agenda and I think I know what that agenda is.”

  “I do too. The voice calling me at the Common, the note on the car and now this, all tells me that I’m this asshole’s agenda.”

  The radio came to life. There was a double shooting at Christopher Columbus Park. Anne said, “That’s a couple of blocks from the Marriott.”

  “This shooter shows up every place we go. This guy is stalking us.”

  Anne turned on the emergency lights and sped toward the waterfront.

  Anne parked the car in front of the small park that bordered one side of the Old Custom House, but she and Houston knew what they were going to find before they got to the bodies. Houston paused for a second and looked at the yachts moored in the Boston Yacht Haven before turning to study the crowd that had gathered along the sidewalk. He knew he was grasping at straws, but maybe he would recognize a face from one of the other shooting scenes. Once again, Houston studied each person in the crowd, looking for anything that might give the shooter away. He realized it was an exercise in futility, shrugged and accepted the fact that this shooter was a pro and was long gone by now. Houston walked toward the cordoned-off scene of the latest shooting.

  An ashen-faced uniformed officer met them. Houston was still reeling from the afternoon’s events, but he hid his exhaustion and anger behind a façade of professionalism. “What you got?”

  “Two dead. Looks as if the shots came from across Atlantic Avenue.”

  “Any ID on the vics?”

  The officer opened his notebook. “Guy’s name is Blackman, Peter. The woman has a sheet—a hooker named Carolyn McGuire.”

  Houston stared across Atlantic Avenue. “You said the shots came from over there.” He pointed.

  “We haven’t had a chance to get anyone up there yet, but I would guess they were fired from the top of the parking garage.”

  As he had done on the Common, Houston estimat
ed the distance . . . it was at least five hundred yards.

  The sniper stood at the edge of the top deck of the public parking garage, studying the scene across Atlantic Avenue through his range finder. He moved the instrument until the aiming box was centered on Houston and noted the distance—530 yards. I could do you right now, Mikey. He dropped the optical device into his pocket and kept his eyes on Houston.

  Suddenly Houston seemed to look directly at him. When the detective began running toward his location, he waved and then made a hasty retreat from the building.

  Houston began scanning the area around the park. When he looked at the top floor of the parking garage he spied a man who seemed to be observing them through some form of field glass. He froze, expecting to see the figure raise a rifle at any second. Fully aware of the futility of his action, he ran across the street hoping to get a better view of the perp.

  He heard footsteps behind him and assumed it was Anne. His suspicions were confirmed when she called, “Mike, what are you doing?”

  Houston raced inside the municipal parking garage and suddenly stopped. Anne halted beside him, panting for breath. “What . . . is . . . going . . . on?” she asked between gasps.

  “You didn’t see the bastard?”

  “Who?”

  “I think the shooter was on the top level.” As he spoke Houston studied the building. In the center of each floor was the elevator, but when he saw the stairwells in each corner of the building, he realized the futility of his effort. The shooter could have taken any of them to make his escape. The loud bang of a door slamming in the northeast corner sent him racing. He opened the exit door to find an empty space with another door, this one leading outside. Stuck between the door and the jamb was another piece of paper.

  He heard Anne say, “Mike, for crying out loud, it could have been someone getting their car—”

  Houston snatched the paper from the door and handed it to her. “Still think so?”

  Anne read the note and her complexion blanched.

  “What’s it say?” Houston asked.

  She read: “This is three times now . . . I can take you whenever I want.”

  Houston tightened his hands into fists and cursed. “The son of a bitch is playing with us . . . ”

  10

  “The important thing is what happens when you are hard pressed. The First Principle means you keep that clearly in mind, pay close attention and make sure you do not get caught in a pinch, unprepared.”

  —Yagyū Munenori, The Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War

  Houston and Anne stood in front of the entrance to the dormitory, waiting for the arrival of a campus police officer. Houston’s patience was at its limit and his temper was showing. “Where the hell is this guy?”

  “Mike, will you calm down?” Anne asked.

  “What do you mean by that?” Houston stared through the glass in the heavy door. He fought against the desire to leave and let someone else take care of this onerous task.

  “If you go busting in here like you’re on a drug raid, all you’ll do is make the rift between you and your daughter wider. She’s going to have enough to deal with as it is. All your shitty attitude will do is make it harder.”

  Houston turned away from the building and looked both ways along the street. He glanced at his watch. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous before—not even on my first mission in Somalia, and that was in 1993, twenty years ago.”

  He turned back toward her, and she saw that, even though he tried to hide it, he was worried. She knew he fought with his emotions and that this was a battle he was not prepared for. She reached out and gripped his hand. “Mike, it’s your daughter in there, not some armed nutcase hyped on drugs.”

  “That’s the problem. I know how to deal with nutcases.”

  “Do you want me to do this for you?”

  “No. I don’t need you holding my hand like I was some kindergartner on the first day of school.” Houston turned toward the building. “Well, this isn’t getting it done, is it?”

  “No, that’s a fact.” Anne took his arm. “I’m going with you, whether you like it or not.”

  “Anne, I can do this myself.”

  “I know that.”

  A campus police car pulled alongside of the curb and a female officer got out and walked to the entrance of the dorm. “Officers Houston and Bouchard?”

  “That’s us,” Anne replied.

  “Officer Beverley Justis. Could I see some ID, please?”

  Anne held her badge and ID card open and Justis studied it for a few seconds. She nodded and then turned to Houston. “Sir?”

  Anne gave him a reproachful look when he said, “Jesus Christ.”

  “Mike.”

  Houston displayed his credentials.

  “Thank you,” Justis said to him. “I understand that you’re the father of one of our students.”

  “That’s correct. Look Officer . . . ” Houston glanced at the name plate she wore on her uniform blouse. “ . . . Justis. I am not here in an official capacity. My daughter’s mother has passed away and I want to be the one to tell her. So can we just get inside please?”

  “Of course.” A locked security door barred access to the building. The only way to gain entrance into the dormitory was via a call box on the wall to the left of the door. Justis leaned past Houston and entered a three-digit code to buzz the desired room. After several seconds a female voice asked, “Who is it?”

  Justis leaned forward so her face aligned with the speaker. “BU Police.”

  The voice asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “No, but I need to come up.”

  The door buzzed and Houston barged through. He rushed toward an elevator and punched the up button.

  “Mike, don’t go up there like you’re storming a beach,” Anne said.

  He glared at her. “I’m all right.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re madder than hell and if you go in there acting like you were confronting a perp, how will she react? I don’t know about Susie, but if it were me I’d never forgive you.”

  Justis gave him a look that told Anne the officer was having second thoughts about letting him have access to the dorm. The elevator arrived and they stepped inside. Anne took the initiative and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

  She heard Houston inhale deeply and then exhale in a single explosive breath. “You’re right,” he said. “I can’t handle this like a cop.”

  “No, you need to handle this like a father.”

  “Great . . . like I have a clue about how to do that.”

  Anne noted that Justis stood in the corner and silently studied them. It was evident that she was trying to decide just how close these two BPD officers were. Even Anne was aware that they communicated on a plane more personal than that of partners. She was relieved when the lift stopped and the door opened without any comment from the campus officer.

  Susie lived in room 415. They exited the elevator and followed the arrow on a placard that indicated her room was to the left. Halfway down the hall, they stopped before a metal door with the appropriate number painted on it. Justis knocked on the door.

  A petite blonde-haired girl wearing a lightweight BU shirt and cutoff blue jeans answered the door. The air conditioning was set low and it was evident she wore no bra. Justis said, “Susan Houston, please.”

  “She isn’t here right now.”

  “These people are from the Boston police. They need to speak with her.” She stepped aside as Anne and Houston showed her their credentials. The young girl’s eyebrows arched with curiosity. “What has Susie done?”

  “I’m her father.” They were the first words Houston had uttered since exiting the elevator.

  Anne answered the girl’s question. “Nothing, we just need to speak with her.”

  “She’s at the library. I can text her.”

  “Please do so,” Justis said. “This is important.”

  “Don’t,
” Houston interjected, “tell her that I’m here . . . ”

  The girl gave him a quizzical look, then shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”

  Anne thought Houston sounded disingenuous when he said, “I want to surprise her.”

  The coed turned from the door and picked up a cell phone. She spent a few seconds entering text into it and then put it down. In a matter of seconds the phone buzzed and she looked at the trio of adults at the door. “She’s on her way back. I suppose it would be okay for you to come in and wait for her.”

  Once they were inside, Anne saw Houston studying the room. It was the first normal thing she had seen him do since they had departed the Comm Avenue crime scene. This was possibly the first time in many years he had been in a room in which his daughter lived and she wondered what was going through his mind.

  It was a typical college dorm room, which contained two single beds, both in teenaged disarray with sheets and blankets twisted into formless piles and pushed inboard against the wall. Between the beds were two small desks, on which sat two laptops. Rap music reverberated from a nearby room and Anne tried to ignore it. She believed that the phrase “rap music” was an oxymoron. She had lost interest in popular music in the ’90s. Compared to the angry pounding and violent, sexist lyrics of modern music, heavy metal seemed tame.

  In one corner of the room a small television was tuned to the local news. Amanda Boyce was reporting from the waterfront shooting scene, informing Boston that the sniper had struck again . . . possibly twice.

  The blonde girl interrupted her. “I’m Melissa Redfern, Susie’s roommate. “I’m Detective Bouchard,” Anne said. “You’ve already been introduced to Detective Houston.”

  The girl looked at Houston with interest. It was as if she were checking him out to see if there were enough resemblance between him and Susie to name him in a paternity suit.

  Houston felt his face flush. Who knew what Susie had told her roommate about their relationship? It wouldn’t be the first time an angry child bad-mouthed a parent.

  Houston went back to studying his daughter’s half of the room. He walked to her bed and seemed to forget he was not alone. He reverently picked up a blouse that lay sprawled on the bed. He held it in his hands and studied it. He detected the faint scent of perfume and realized that his little girl was neither little nor a girl any longer. He replaced the blouse and looked at the small shelf mounted on the wall above the bed. Centered, and looking as if it were in a place of honor, was a picture of him standing next to Pam, an attractive and fit young woman. Susie, then a gangly girl, stood in front of him. He stood like a statue and stared at the framed photo. Houston stared, concentrating on Pam’s image and realized that she had not changed much over the years.