Mystery: The Sam Prichard Series - Books 1-4

by David Archer

  Indie cocked her head to the right. “But don't you think, if one person saw the shooter, others would have? I mean, it was an outdoor setting. A shot goes off; wouldn't most people turn to look where it came from?”

  “Read the statement,” Sam said, pointing to the screen. “The couple who was killed was getting all the attention even before they were shot. Probably all of the people who might have seen the shooter were watching them and smiling as they kissed, and then they'd be in total shock as soon as they realized what had happened. Very few of them would be thinking of anything except where to go to get out of the line of fire. Our witness was probably turned away from all that, and happened to see a figure raise a gun and fire. If he was drunk, he might not have even looked to see who was shot, he would have just thought, 'wow, that dude shot somebody,' and tried to keep him in sight. Somebody bumps into him, and in his inebriated state, he goes down. By the time he gets up, our boy is long gone.”

  “Then, you believe his story?” Indie asked. “That the shooter was on foot at the time?”

  Sam nodded. “It fits what I'm seeing in this guy. He's arrogant, thinks he's too good at what he does to get caught. If he decided he wanted to make a shot like this, he'd choose his targets and then follow them, look for any chance to make the shot. When he sees it, he'll gauge how the people nearby are acting, and fire when he's confident he can get away.”

  Indie shuddered. “Sam,” she said, “what if he's actually chosen you? What if all of this is a ploy to get you to somewhere he wants you, so he can kill you?”

  Sam laughed. “Baby, this guy wouldn’t bat an eye at stalking me, and he probably is, even now. He knew I was at the church within minutes this morning, so he's probably following me. The fact that I didn't spot him is more worrisome to me than anything else, but you can bet I'll be watching everything around me from here on out.”

  Indie clicked the next link. This one detailed the death of Walter Simon, a fifty-eight-year-old man who was shot as he and his lady friend, Priscilla Borden, walked along the side of the street they lived on. The shot hit him in the center of his forehead, causing his skull to explode and splattering Priscilla with gore. Priscilla said she heard the shot, but didn't see anything to indicate where it had come from. Another witness claimed to have seen an old Gremlin racing away, but Sam discounted the statement immediately.

  “A Gremlin might have driven away, but it wasn't our boy driving it. He's too cool; he wouldn't risk driving in any way that might attract attention. To do so would risk him getting stopped, and even if he only got a ticket, it would link him to the time and area of the killing. He's too cool, and too smart, to let that happen.”

  She clicked the next link. “Constance Peterman,” she read aloud, “twenty-one years old. In March of two thousand ten, she was shot in the side of the head as she rode a bicycle along the side of the road in Fort Collins. She had her best friend, Jill Stewart, riding right beside her when it happened. Jill said she saw a tall man driving a maroon truck pass them just as it happened, but she didn't see a gun. Right as she saw him, Constance fell against her, and she didn't see the license plate. She realized what had happened, freaked out, and by the time she got her wits back, the truck was gone.”

  “He's not worried about being seen,” Sam said. “Let's see if Herman's gotten anything on missed shots, and then let's have him check out stolen vehicle reports around the same times as these shootings. He can do that, right?”

  Indie smiled. “Yep!” she said, and tapped her keyboard. A new set of links appeared, this time only about a dozen of them. “Okay, these are the reports of people being shot at and missed for the same time period. There aren't many.”

  “That's because this guy is good, whoever he is. Email Karen and ask her to check firing ranges for someone firing a single-shot .223 pistol. I doubt he'd ever go to a range with it, but it's worth checking out.”

  Indie typed rapidly, then said, “Done. Ready?”

  “Yeah, let's look at these.”

  Indie clicked on the first link. In ‘07, a man named Harold Brinker had called police and reported that he had heard a shot fired as he was driving down a residential street. When he stopped to look, he noticed a bullet hole in his car, on the post just behind the driver's door, and at about the level of his head. The bullet that was removed from the car was a .223, just like all the others.

  Each case was almost identical. Someone who would have been precisely the type of victim chosen in the actual shootings either reported hearing a shot fired, or saw a sudden bullet hole appear in a vehicle, wall or something else. In each case, the recovered slug was from a .223.

  Sam nodded. “So, sometimes he misses, and since none of these people are on the list of victims, that means he never goes back after a target if he does. That's interesting, but doesn't tell me whether Caleb is still at risk, so we're going to assume that he is. Let's see about the stolen vehicles.”

  Indie tapped, and a long list of links appeared. Sam whistled. “Well, well,” he said. “Looks like our boy can hotwire a car, too. Let's see, March twenty ten, is there a maroon pickup reported stolen?”

  Indie scanned through the links and clicked on two that were reported within three days of the Constance Peterman killing. “Bingo!” she said. “Got a maroon Ford F-150 stolen the morning of that shooting. Owner said he parked it at work that morning, and when he came out at lunchtime, it was gone. Found late that night about a mile from where the shooting took place.”

  They looked at some of the other reports that said a vehicle was seen, and in each case, a similar vehicle was stolen within the previous few hours, usually not more than an hour before the shooting occurred. Sam was getting excited.

  “He's got money, and he's a car thief as well as a murderer. He's addicted to killing; it makes him feel high or excited, and he likes the thrill. He's daring, and likes to show that witnesses don't scare him. Most of that would fit the normal profile of a serial killer. The big difference, in this case, is that this guy isn't a glory hound; his killings have gotten very little press, and only a few of them have even been speculated as being the work of a serial killer at all, but he's never contacted any reporters, newspapers or TV stations to brag about his work. That’s unusual. This guy isn't the normal type; he's only in it for himself, and he's not able to stop on his own; that's why he wants someone to catch him.”

  “And that's why he chose you,” Indie said. “He doesn't make the news, but he follows it for sure, and he's seen all the stuff that they've been saying about you. He figures, hey, here’s a guy who can catch terrorists and expose mind control and all that, he might be the one who can help put an end to my madness, too.”

  Sam nodded. “Not meaning to be as egotistical as this is gonna sound, but that sounds right. He wants someone to stop him because he can't stop himself. That means that the people who do know him probably have no idea that this side of him even exists. He's probably a genuinely nice guy, when he isn't out to kill someone.”

  “Mr. Brooks,” Indie said. “Did you ever see that movie, with Kevin Costner? He was this rich, successful businessman that everyone loved, but he was addicted to killing people. He went to AA meetings and talked about his addiction as if it was to booze or drugs, and even had a plan to have someone else kill him, because he couldn't make himself stop...” She suddenly trailed off, and her eyes got wide. “Except, when he got to the place where he was supposed to be killed, with the guy who was gonna do it, he backed out. He killed the other guy, instead, and went right on killing for the thrill of it.”

  Sam shrugged. “Addicts always back out of kicking their habit, until they reach that point where they can't go on. This guy would be like that, too, if he gets the chance. Remember the first note? He says if I can't stop him, then he figures no one can, and so he'll go on killing. He wants this game, so that there's a chance he'll lose and his addiction will end, but he doesn't want to lose. If he can beat me, even if it means killing me, he'll do it.�
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  Indie nodded, but Sam could tell she was worried. “Okay, we've got a profile,” she said. “Now, let's find the first target. He said she lives alone near the line between Denver and Arvada, and she owns a business that new mothers use. Let's see what Herman can find. What are some businesses new mothers use?”

  Sam stared at her. “You're asking me? I've never even known a new mother!”

  Indie rolled her eyes. “Men are such wimps,” she said, then began typing, speaking softly as she did so. “Diaper service—baby furniture, baby clothing stores—pediatricians—nutritionists…”

  “Nutritionists?” Sam asked.

  Indie nodded. “Mm-hm,” she said. “New mothers, especially if they're breastfeeding, go to nutritionists to learn how to eat to make their milk as good for the baby as possible—what else? Oh, babysitters and day care! Some of them actually specialize in newborns, for when the mom has to get back to work in a rush!”

  She continued typing, and came up with several more ideas. Finally, she hit the enter key, and turned to Sam. We'll give him some time to work, and see who all he comes up with. If we're lucky, we'll find websites with photos, so we can tell if we're getting the right woman, but once we get names, we can go back to Facebook and try looking them up that way. That should let us find her, if she's in the list.”

  Sam leaned forward and put a hand on the back of her neck, pulling her to him for a kiss. “I just figured we deserve that, and I might not get another chance, once we get this list and get busy again.”

  “Mmm,” she said, “look, Mr. Prichard, you need to understand one thing; I'm your wife, now, and you can do that anytime you want to! That’s in the marriage rulebook, it is, I checked. Says you are now allowed to kiss me anytime—unless I'm pissed at you, then you better wait ‘til I calm down.”

  “And are you mad at me now?” Sam asked.

  “Um—no.”

  “Good,” he said, and kissed her again.

  Herman made a ding, and they let go of each other and turned their attentions back to the screen. There were almost three-dozen links there, and they began looking through them.

  Indie had told Herman to look for females whose homes were along the border between Denver and Arvada and who owned a business of one of the types she had described. He had done exactly as she'd instructed, and they began checking each link to see if any of them looked like either of the photos the killer had sent to Sam.

  They could eliminate some on the basis of race; both of the women in the photos were Caucasian, so when they saw a black, Hispanic or Asian woman, they clicked back and went to the next link. One or two looked a little like one of the women, but none of them were exact.

  However, some of them had no photos of the owners, so Indie had to go to Facebook and start hunting for them. The trouble with that was the number of people on Facebook that have similar names; when she typed in Julie Williams, she got almost a hundred possibilities in the Denver area alone.

  Some of them she could eliminate, in the same way, by scanning the list and looking at the miniature profile photos, but some people use other things for their profile pictures; in those cases she had to click on the picture and let their pages load, then look through their photos to see if they had a match. It was a slow process, because so many people don't even post a lot of pictures of themselves, and some don't allow any but their friends to see the photos they do post, or much of their profile at all.

  That didn't stop Indie, however. She merely copied the URL of the person's profile picture, then pasted it into a browser and removed a section of it, then hit enter, and she had all of their photos available instantly.

  Sam's eyebrows went up. “I didn't think there was a way around Facebook's privacy settings.”

  She smiled at him. “Puh-lease,” she said. “Did you forget who you’re talking to, here? Actually, that's a pretty simple hack that's all over the internet. Anyone can do that.” She went through enough of the person's photos to be sure it wasn't who she was looking for, then went on to the next name on their list.

  Sam glanced at the time and realized that it was past one thirty; they'd been at this for almost two-and-a-half hours. “Babe, you getting hungry?”

  “Yeah,” she said, “I am. Want me to make us some lunch?”

  “How about I do that, while you sit here and babysit Herman? We've got some heat-and-eat burritos, right?”

  “Yep, bottom shelf of the freezer. I could eat one,” Indie said. “And could you bring me a root beer? I'm about coffee-logged.”

  “You got it,” Sam said, then got up and went to the kitchen. The burritos were right where she'd said, and since it took only three minutes to heat up three of them, he stuffed them into the microwave and got out a couple bottles of root beer and some paper plates while they cooked. When they were done, he carried them all back into the office and found Indie sitting frozen and staring at the screen.

  He set her plate and drink down beside her.

  “Okay,” he said, “that expression means you've got something. Give,”

  Indie nodded slowly, without turning to face him. “Well, I had Herman look for baby-related businesses on Facebook, because some companies set up business profiles, y'know? Then you can find the owner of that page, and see who it is. Look.”

  Sam leaned in and looked at the Facebook profile she was staring at. He got a good look at the photo, glanced down at the one Indie was holding—it was the blonde woman—and then looked at the name. Sam suddenly realized why the photo had looked mildly familiar.

  “Holy cow,” Sam said, “that's Samantha Harris!”

  “Yep,” Indie said. “I knew I had seen that face somewhere before, but it was still a bit distorted and I didn't recognize her right off the bat. Since when is she in business for herself?”

  Sam shook his head. “I don't know,” he said. “I never asked what she did for a living. On the other hand, doesn't it seem a bit coincidental that she turns out to be a woman I met in one of my first cases?”

  Indie nodded. “Yeah, it does,” she said. “Sam, it's like this guy knows everything about you. All about your cases, and everything.”

  Sam stared at the screen. Like Indie, the fact that it was Samantha Harris whose profile they were looking at was bothering him. He shook his head again. “I don't know what to think. This is turning out to be pretty weird. On the other hand, if I've identified her, then she should be safe. I guess what I need to do is go and talk to her.”

  Indie nodded. “Yeah,” she said, “but watch your back and look for anyone following you.”

  Sam looked grim. “You can count on that,” he said. “What’s the address of her place of business?”

  Indie looked. “It says she works out of her home. Same place she's lived all along.” She paused, then turned to look at Sam. “Wanna know something weird?”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes Herman scares me a bit. I gave him a whole bunch of different baby-related businesses to search, right? Well, one that I didn't think of was a midwife, but you wanna guess what Samantha does for a living?”

  Sam looked at her. “I'm gonna go out on a limb and say midwife for two hundred, Alex.”

  “Yeah,” Indie said. “Which means Herman added that occupation to his own programming.”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah, so?”

  “Sam, Herman isn't really a person, he's a computer program. Computer programs can't think for themselves; we have to tell them what to think about. But, somehow, he did what he can't do; he deduced for himself that there was at least one other business that caters to new mothers—like, the newest mothers—and added it to his search parameters. That should be impossible.”

  Sam stood there, unsure of what to say. Finally, he settled for, “Hey, Babe? As long as he's on our side, I don't care if he comes to life, but the minute he starts calling himself Skynet, I'm blowing your computer to kingdom come, got that?”

  Indie only nodded, so he kissed her goodbye and left.<
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  David Archer was born and raised in Bakersfield, California. He is a fiction author and novelist, writing in the mysteries and thrillers genre. His approach to writing is to hit deep, keep you entertained, and leave you wanting MORE with every turn of the page. He writes mysteries, thrillers, and suspense novels, all of which are primed to get your heart pumping.

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  Table of Contents

  BOOK I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  BOOK II

  1