Kiss the Witch

by Dana E. Donovan

“No. That’s….” I paused to calculate the distance. “That’s got to be eight hundred meters away.”

  “More like eleven,” she said.

  “Damn,” Spinelli remarked. “Eleven hundred meters? That is no ordinary sniper range. That’s military snipping.”

  I holstered my weapon. “Then we’re good.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Dominic, he hit his mark. That sniper is long gone by now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I gestured toward the hotel room. “Call in a crime scene crew. Get them out here and over to that warehouse rooftop. Start collecting evidence. We have another homicide on our hands.”

  After turning over our crime scene to the CSI crew, Carlos, Spinelli and I drove out to the warehouse where the shot that killed Howard Snow came from. There on the rooftop, as Corporal Olson predicted, we found evidence of a makeshift sniper’s nest, consisting of a sandbag muzzle rest and camouflage netting designed to look like roof gravel. No shell casing. No weapon. Nothing else remained.

  With Spinelli’s binoculars, I could see clearly across the marsh to the motel parking lot, including the room where the CSI team was still busy collecting evidence. An expert shooter with the sun at his back, a calm wind and a serious sniping rifle would have had little trouble scoping in a kill shot from such a vantage point.

  “This smacks of a government assignation,” Carlos remarked. “I don’t know where we turn next.”

  “We call in the Feds,” I said.

  Spinelli scoffed at that. “Sure, like they’ll do something about it.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I told him. “We have to call them. This is no longer our case. It’s theirs.”

  “Why?”

  “This warehouse is on Federal property. It sits along the marshlands extending to the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge. So, technically this is a Federal crime scene.”

  “This warehouse is part of the preserve?”

  “Yup.”

  “But the Marsh flow doesn’t even flow that far.”

  “Oh, but it does. It gets skinny, but that’s where it eventually ends up.”

  “What about the rest of our case? What about Delaney’s murder at the railroad tracks? The car bomb at Dwyer’s? Isn’t that still ours?”

  I shook my head. “What case? All we have is a morgue full of dead bodies. And with Dwyer, we don’t even have that. No body. No blown up car. We cannot even prove a crime took place.” I shook my head. “Without Howard Snow, we have nothing.”

  “What about my Corvette?” Carlos asked. “Who’s going to get the bastards that shot up my Vette?”

  “The Feds.”

  He hauled back and kicked the sandbag off the edge of the roof. “Damnit. That sucks. You know they won’t do anything about it, Tony. Hell, they’re the ones who shot it up in the first place.”

  I pointed over the edge. “You just disturbed Federal evidence.”

  “Sue me,” he snarled, and he walked away.

  I looked at Spinelli. He seemed equally put out. “You got a problem with this?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, but it does suck.”

  I nodded my agreement as he, too, walked away. “Yes,” I said under my breath. “It definitely sucks.”

  FIFTEEN

  The next morning, Carlos and I were at the office organizing the paperwork we needed to file with our report to the Feds. Carlos was still angry over the thought of turning the case over to the same people he believed shot up his car. I tried telling him that wasn’t the FBI.

  “I don’t care,” he said. “FBI, CIA, NSA, T&A. Feds are Feds.”

  “T&A?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Just so you know, the FBI work under the jurisdiction of the Department of Justice, which has nothing to do with those other agencies.”

  Across the room, several workstations down, someone called out, “Detective Marcella?”

  I looked out over the expanse of desktop monitors. “Here,” I said, only then spotting the stranger who called for me.

  He came over to us, an older man in a neatly pressed suit with starched white collar and cuffs peeking out in conspicuous flair. I pegged him at around fifty, so calling him older is not exactly fair, especially since beneath my twenty-something-year-old exterior lies a sixty-something-year-old man.

  “Detective Marcella?”

  I stood and offered my handshake. “That’s right. How can I help you?”

  He flashed his badge and ID. “Special Agent Bradley Driscoll, F.B.I. I’m here to assume the Biocrynetix Laboratories case you’re working on.”

  “I didn’t call you guys yet.” I looked to Carlos. “Did you call him?”

  Carlos shook his head. “I didn’t call.”

  “Did Spinelli?”

  “No. He’s not here yet.”

  “No one from your office called me, Detective,” Driscoll said. “I’m here because of what happened yesterday at the motel.”

  “How do you know what happened at the motel?”

  Carlos said, “Because he’s the one who orchestrated it all. Don’t you see, Tony? Agent Dribble here is probably the one who shot Howard Snow. Isn’t that right, Dribble?”

  “It’s Driscoll.”

  “Carlos. Please.”

  “Tony. How else would he know?”

  Driscoll said, “J.P. Ferguson called me yesterday when he heard about the shooting on the news.” He looked directly at Carlos. “That’s how I know, Detective Rodriguez.”

  I splayed my hands out over my desk. “Okay. Fine. We expected you to show eventually. Here you have it. These are the documents and photos from the case. Good luck.”

  Carlos scoffed. “He doesn’t need luck. This case is going nowhere after today. The government has what it wants now. They have the research documents from Biocrynetix. They have the compound. They killed everyone remotely related to the development of the compound.” He tossed his hands into the air. “They have everything they want.”

  Agent Driscoll said nothing. He gathered the papers from my desk into a neat pile and scooped them into his arms. “Is this all of it?” he asked.

  I turned my palms up empty. “That’s it.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and without addressing Carlos, added, “have a nice day.”

  He was halfway down the hall when Carlos called out, “You have a nice day, too, Dribble dick.”

  Bradley Driscoll did not acknowledge the remark, though nearly every head in the room turned to see who said it. Carlos simply waved to them all.

  “Can you believe that guy?” he said to me after everyone had resumed work.

  I shrugged uneasily. “Hey, I don’t like it any more than you do, Carlos, but the man has a job to do.”

  “Doing our job, you mean.”

  “Yeah maybe. Listen. Where’s Spinelli?”

  He laughed. “You kidding? He’s getting married tonight. He’s probably at home shaking in his boots.”

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “Dominic is worried about the whole handfasting thing. I was supposed to ask Lilith about it.”

  “Ouch. Hey, you don’t suppose he and Ursula are bound by the hands already. Do you?”

  “I don’t know. Lilith said nothing about it this morning at breakfast. Maybe they––”

  “Hey guys.” It was Spinelli, a coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “What’s up?”

  Carlos and I looked at each other. “Well,” I said. “Guess that answers that.”

  “Answers what?”

  “We thought you and Ursula might be joined at the hands this morning.”

  He laughed. “No. I talked to Ursula last night. The handfasting thing is mostly symbolic. It’s just a small part of the ceremony tonight. That’s all.”

  Carlos said, “Bet that’s a relief for you.”

  “You mean for Ursula,�
� he said. “Poor girl. She’s too shy to spend the entire day bound to me. She said she would not be able to pee with me standing next to her. She is really modest that way you know.”

  “Modest?” He pointed at me. “But she––”

  “Carlos.” I gave him the eye. He wisely backed down. “So Dominic, are you nervous about tonight?”

  He smiled a boyish grin. “Petrified is more like it. But excited, too. I don’t know what to expect.”

  “Relax. Don’t give it much thought and it will all be over before you know it.”

  “Like a dentist appointment,” remarked Carlos.

  Spinelli just shook his head. “I know that. That’s why I came to work today. I couldn’t stand hanging around the house waiting.” He gave a quick look around. I knew straight away what he was thinking. “Where’s the…. Where is all our research for the case?”

  “There is no case,” said Carlos. “Some dribble dick agent from the FBI came here and took it all.”

  “Agent Bradley was here already?”

  “You mean Agent Bradley Driscoll.”

  “No. I mean Agent Tom Bradley. I talked to him last night. He said he would be here….” Dominic checked his watch. “Said he would be here about now.”

  “Someone did come here,” I said. “Only he said his name was––”

  “Yo. Spinelli.”

  The three of us turned.

  Dominic called out, “Tom. Over here.”

  Carlos and I watched with dropped jaws as a young man Spinelli’s age, wearing an off-the-rack J.C. Penny suit, hurried over and shook Dominic’s hand. Spinelli introduced him to us as an old friend now working for the FBI in Boston.

  “Tom and I were roommates in college,” Spinelli said. He put his arm around Tom Bradley’s shoulder. “We studied criminal investigation there. Can you believe it? I was going to be FBI. He was going to be a detective.”

  “That’s funny,” I said, forcing a smile. “What happened? Get each other’s homework mixed up?”

  Tom Bradley thought that was funny. “No. It’s just the way things worked out. Guess you never know sometimes, eh?”

  “Yeah,” said Carlos. He gave up a nervous laugh. “You never know.”

  Bradley said, “So listen, Spin Man. I’m––”

  “Spin Man?” I said.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s what we called him at school.”

  “But that doesn’t leave this circle,” Spinelli warned. I rolled my eyes and left it at that.

  “Anyway, Spin Man. I’m sorry I can’t stay and reminisce, but I have to run. Got a plane to catch out of Logan in an hour. I can barely make it as it is. You have the files?”

  Carlos and I both said, “Files?”

  He looked at us queerly. “The case files on Biocrynetix.” He looked to Spinelli. “Dominic. You told me you would have them ready.”

  “I know. We had them.” Spinelli turned to me. “Detective Marcella was just explaining what happened to them. Detective?”

  I swallowed back a growing lump in my throat. “We gave them away already.”

  Bradley said, “You gave them away?”

  “Just a while ago.”

  “To who?”

  “This guy. He said his named was Bradley.”

  “Yeah,” said Carlos. “He told us he was FBI.”

  “Someone said he was me?”

  “Yes. No. I mean he said his first name was Bradley. He showed us a badge and ID. Didn’t he, Tony?”

  “He did. He had a badge, an ID and a nice suit.”

  “A very nice suit,” said Carlos.

  Agent Tom Bradley looked down at his suit, pulled on his cuffs and stiffened his shoulders. “Well, this will not look good for your department.” He turned to Spinelli. “I’m sorry, Dominic.”

  “Tom, I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this.”

  Bradley checked his watch. “I’m running late, Spin Man. I have to go.”

  We waited until Agent Bradley was gone before exchanging bewildered glances. Spinelli broke the awkward silence. “Anyone want to explain to me what just happened here?”

  “They got us,” Carlos said. “Plain and simple. The bastards got us again. We have nothing now.”

  I concurred. “Looks like you’re right, Carlos. I should have asked for papers or something.”

  “He showed us a badge and ID.”

  “We still should have asked for case transfer papers.”

  “So what now?”

  “What do you mean what? That’s it. We’re done. That’s how it goes. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose.”

  “And sometimes you choose between the two,” said Dominic.

  Carlos scoffed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s from a song.”

  “Carol King,” I said.

  “Yeah. That’s right.”

  “Well, I have news for you. There is no choosing here. This time we lose.”

  “Maybe not.” Spinelli’s cheeks dimpled suspiciously.

  “Wait a minute.” I poked him on the chest. “I know that shit-eating grin. What have you got up your sleeve, Dominic?”

  His full smile broke free. “Oh, I don’t know, just an ace in the hole is all.”

  “What?” This from Carlos and me both.

  “Okay,” he said. “You’re gonna like this.” He paused for dramatic effect. Carlos and I crowded him against the desk.

  “Tell us already.”

  He scooted aside, came around the desk and pulled an airline ticket out from the top drawer. “Remember this?”

  I took the ticket. “This is Ferguson’s boarding pass for the Toronto to Boston red eye.”

  “Exactly. Look at the arrival time.”

  I looked at it again, only then realizing I had not paid particular attention before to the times on it. “It says arriving in Boston 1:55 a.m. Monday morning.”

  He smiled at that. “That’s right. Do you know what time that train struck Rick Delaney’s car Monday morning?”

  “No.”

  “3:10 a.m. Exactly one hour fifteen minutes after J.P. Ferguson’s plane touched down. Plenty of time for him to call Delaney at home, wake him up and have him drive out to the Biocrynetix Laboratories for an emergency meeting.”

  “You’re thinking Ferguson pushed Delaney onto the tracks?”

  “Yup.”

  I admit, my enthusiasm deflated sharply then. “Dominic. Putting J.P. Ferguson on the ground at the same time Delaney kissed the grill of a train does not prove he pushed the man’s car onto the tracks.”

  “Oh?” His face soured some. “I suppose you would like a confession then.”

  “Yes, Dominic. A confession would be nice.”

  His devious smile returned. I drew a doubting bead upon him. “Dominic. Why are you smiling?”

  Carlos said, “Oh no, Tony. He’s got a confession.”

  I shook my head. “No he doesn’t.”

  Dominic nodded. “Yes I do.”

  “You have a confession?”

  “Yup.”

  “From who?”

  “Ferguson.”

  “He confessed to you?”

  “Well no, not to me, but over the phone.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He came back around to the front of the desk and picked up the phone. “You remember how I told you I found listening devices in our phones?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Okay. See it got me thinking. Whoever tapped our phones, assuming it wasn’t Biocrynetix Laboratories, probably tapped Ferguson’s phone as well.”

  “Yes?”

  “And so I determined the frequency of the bugs set in our phones, picked up a few wi-fi receivers of my own, set them to the same frequency and then planted them outside Ferguson’s office.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Did it? Just listen.”

  He pulled out his Merc-Vector mobile device, launched a specially configured app, which he designed,
and hit the play button. What Carlos and I heard next blew our socks off. The first voice on the recording was J.P. Ferguson’s. The other man’s voice we may never know.

  “Biocrynetix Laboratories. J.P. speaking.”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Why are you calling me here? I told you not to call me at the office.”

  “Relax, Ferguson. The lines are clean.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Tell me what Marcella knows.”

  “He doesn’t know anything. The man is inept, and so is his bumbling idiot partner.”

  “Why did he come back to see you?”

  “Because he knows about QE647.”

  “He’s getting close then.”

  “No. He’s not getting close. Everything he knows he could learn on the internet.”

  “Does he know you killed Williams and Delaney?”

  “Of course not. As far as anyone is concerned, those were accidents.”

  “You should not have pushed Delaney onto the tracks. That was foolish.”

  “No. He had to go. He knew too much.”

  “You should have let us worry about that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Marcella knows it was not an accident. He saw the tire marks. It is only a matter of time before he checks the tires on your car against the tire tracks at the crossing. Right now, he thinks they came from Snow’s hummer. But he’ll figure it out soon enough.”

  “All right then. I’ll get rid of the car if that’s the only evidence pointing to me.”

  “Good.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Don’t leave town. We’ll be watching you.”

  The line went dead there. I looked at Spinelli, uncertain how to respond. “Dominic. I don’t know what to say. This is amazing. We’ve got Ferguson dead to rights with this recording.”

  “Tony,” said Carlos. “I thought you said this was no longer our case.”

  “No. I didn’t say that. I said Howard Snow’s murder was no longer our case. Ferguson killed Williams and Delaney in our jurisdiction. His ass is ours.”

  Carlos still did not seem pleased. Dominic asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t know. It seems too easy. Sounded like the caller baited Ferguson.”

  “He’s right,” I said, considering it. “This won’t get thrown out of court on a technicality. Will it?”

  “Nuh-uh.” Spinelli shook his head faintly. “Don’t see how. It wasn’t a police operation. We didn’t coax him into saying anything.”