Hard Return

by J. Carson Black

  So she sneaked a picture of him to send to her girlfriend in Hawaii. To show that she had finally found a good man.

  Okay, admit it. A damn good-looking man.

  He was bringing in the broodmares one by one for evening feed and bed-down. It was a glorious day, the sun almost below the wooded hills, slanting golden light and throwing dark shadows across the field. There was a grackle in the tree, its harsh repetitive call making a piercing noise. She took a picture of the grackle with her phone. Joe Till led the mare along the path and under the giant cottonwood tree. She reached for some grass and he let her. He rested his hand on her withers and looked back toward the mountain, which was bathed in light. He was still for a moment, just looking, the lead shank loose in his hand. Never taking his eyes from the mountain, he reached over to brush a burr from the mare’s mane. His face was not completely turned away: she caught his profile. On an impulse, she snapped a shot from her phone—

  —and sent it to her friend in Hawaii in an instant.

  The grackle was loud as a pneumatic drill. Joe Till didn’t hear her snap the picture.

  Barbara had been glad the grackle drowned out the sound.

  She knew the rule.

  At the moment she’d hit “Send,” she felt something. It was like the quiet shutting of a door.

  Now Barbara looked for the picture. She’d hidden it so well that at first she couldn’t find it. But finally she worked her way through her photos and found the image.

  His face was in profile, but he was recognizable.

  Barb stared at the television set. Was she sure that the shooter was him? She couldn’t be. But she had always gone by her instincts, and this time was no different. Do I send it to the police? Just how do I do this? Will they think I’m a crank?

  Should I do this?

  If she sent a photo of Joe Till, standing there with the shank in one hand and the other brushing away a burr from the mare’s mane, what were they going to think? Assuming she could find the right person in the right law-enforcement facility to send it to.

  What else do I have to say to back it up? That he drives out five days a week, and is gone for five hours? That I followed him on the freeway once? That I woke up one morning and he stroked my throat and for a moment I just knew he could kill me?

  That he didn’t want to go to Santa Anita?

  She stared at the photo. The sun dappled his face through the branches. He looked calm. Handsome. His smile was for the horse. He was good looking, but . . . generic. It was almost as if his face were a slick surface. Her eyes slid right off, no matter how much she tried to concentrate on him.

  But what would she say?

  Truth was, she wouldn’t say anything.

  They would discount her completely. She wasn’t about to make a fool of herself. So many people would be calling in with tips. A lot of them hoping to be mentioned on TV or maybe for the chance the FBI would come talk to them and they’d have something to tell their friends. That wasn’t her. She didn’t need that kind of attention. She wasn’t a publicity seeker.

  But the feeling persisted.

  There was something wrong with Joe Till.

  She was sure he was somehow involved in the shooting.

  Those poor kids.

  The only thing she could think to do was call her brother. Justin had met Joe once, when she’d had everyone over to dinner. She would ask him what he would do. Whom he would contact.

  She hoped Justin would take it out of her hands, that he would feel the way she did.

  She already knew he didn’t like Joe Till.

  CHAPTER 8

  The new Las Vegas City Hall was big, sprawling, and beautiful—a modern marvel. Imposing, as big city halls should be. Phalanxes of windows reflected the clear blue of the desert sky. City Hall was sleek and shiny—there was nothing Rat Pack about it. This was the new Vegas, rising from the ashes of the older, romantic, seedier Vegas. The Las Vegas City Hall looked intimidating, as it should.

  Landry parked his rental sedan on the street west of the parking lot. His hair was now dishwater blond and cut short. The glasses he wore changed with the light—they turned darker in full sun. He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and an orange knit polo shirt he’d picked up at a secondhand store blocks away from the Strip. The knit shirt had a logo: Datatec Cable. This had been an amazing turn of fortune. The shirt gave him both legitimacy and anonymity.

  He sat in his car and consulted his to-do list.

  First on his list was research. He had looked up articles in the Los Angeles Times and learned the name of the detective in charge of the investigation—Detective Sergeant Joseph Ruckman. Landry Googled Joseph Ruckmans in Los Angeles, and on the third try he got the right one. Detective Joseph Ruckman belonged to several police organizations and a classic-car group—muscle cars specifically. Landry found a pic of Joseph Ruckman at a car meet with his arm around a woman who was probably his wife. Short gray hair, beet-red face, aviator shades, a belly pushing hard at the open-necked bowling shirt he wore. Faded jeans, tennis shoes, and a diver’s watch completed the look.

  Old school.

  Landry judged Detective Sergeant Joseph Ruckman’s age to be between fifty and fifty-five. He was clearly reliving his youth in the form of a bright green 1972 Dodge Challenger with black racing stripes. Landry was old enough to have served his twenty on a police force somewhere, so that would give him something in common with Ruckman. Landry would sound like a cop on the brink of retirement.

  He’d chosen the lunch hour to make his walk-through of City Hall. Inside the cool and spacious new building, Landry walked around in his Datatec Cable uniform, carrying a phone-repair diagnostic kit he’d found on eBay. It didn’t take him long to get a feel of the place. It was an easy place to be anonymous—to be just another cog in an elegant wheel. At this time of day, the building felt empty. The first floor held a radio station, KCLV, which took up quite a bit of space and was an entity unto itself. He thought this floor would be a good place to start.

  He tried a few doors. Most of them were locked. He opened one and a woman looked up from her desk. He apologized and said he was looking for the Human Resources office. She told him Human Resources was on the fourth floor. From the size of the room and the number of doors to the hallway, he now had a feeling for the configuration of this part of the building.

  At noon on the dot, doors opened and people headed out for lunch. Pretty soon the workers slowed to a trickle. He waited until the hallway was empty before looking for an unlocked office. Some offices were open to the public, like the radio station. He avoided these, because he wanted a room to himself. He tried a door down the hallway and again encountered a woman, this one just grabbing her purse. He told her he was with Datatec Cable and needed to test a landline in the building—had she noticed any static? She said she didn’t know.

  “I’ll take a look,” he said. “Hopefully it’s nothing major and I’ll be gone in a few.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m off to lunch. Make yourself at home.”

  He grinned. “Thank you, ma’am. What about the door?”

  “It’s self-locking. Just make sure you close it on your way out.”

  “Sure thing.”

  She left and he sat down at the desk and lifted the receiver.

  He dialed nine and the number for the Torrent Valley PD. When the operator answered, he identified himself as a homicide detective and asked to speak to Detective Sergeant Joseph Ruckman in the Homicide Division. “It’s about the Gordon C. Tuttle High School shooting.”

  “Your name again?”

  “Detective Jim Branch, Homicide, Kalispell, Montana.”

  Ruckman answered on the first ring. “Detective Ruckman.”

  “Detective Ruckman, my name is Jim Branch, and I’m a detective with the Zephyr Police Department in Montana, a stone’s throw from K
alispell. I know you’re busy, but I may have something similar to your shooting—”

  “We are busy here.”

  “Thing is, we had a case that was similar.”

  Silence. Then, “Where did you say you are?”

  “Where am I now? I’m in Vegas, visiting my son. He’s with LVMPD Homicide. I’m calling about what happened in Montana two and a half years ago. There are strong similarities. When I heard about your shooting, I felt I had to call.”

  “What kind of case?”

  “Mass shooting at a community college in the valley. Only three casualties—”

  “Only three,” Ruckman said. “Used to be that was a lot. So how does this fit with my case?”

  “You sure got that right about the casualty number,” Landry said. “These days it doesn’t even count unless it’s six or seven. Maybe you heard about it? Deer Valley Community College? Could have been identical, except the guy we’re looking for—still looking for—got away clean.”

  A pause on the other end. Ruckman was absorbing this. “So you think this could be the same guy? What are the odds of that?”

  “We have some evidence left at the scene, and the crime scene photos. I could send them to you.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Bullets. Also tire-print casts and photos. Bullets are .223 Remingtons.”

  “Yes, I’d like to see them. The FBI would be interested, too.”

  “Oh, you mean Bigfoot? They sure as hell bigfooted us.”

  “Tell me about it. This has been one massive clusterfuck. Crawling with agents. It’s like the Keystone Cops.”

  “Speaking of which, I’d like to talk to the special agent in charge. You have his number?”

  “Yeah, but you want to talk to the special agent who’s working it—the SAC’s not gonna take your call. The SA’s name’s Andrew Keller.” It took him a moment to find, and then he rattled it off.

  “Bet he’s the kind doesn’t want to get his shoes dusty.”

  “I can tell you’ve been there.”

  “You know it. The guy I’m talking about, the shooter? He wasn’t a kid. He was older than that. I’m thinking—”

  “Former military?”

  “Yeah. Considering you have him on a slab, I wanted to see if maybe there was a connection. Our guy was obviously a pro.”

  “This guy was definitely a pro.”

  “Mine got away,” Landry said, “but he ran a red light and wrecked a car, put the driver of the other vehicle in the hospital for six weeks.”

  “He did?”

  “Must’ve lived a charmed life. He was able to drive away . . . and then he disappeared. Unbelievable. We think he must have had friends—a place he went to ground. Those mountains up there . . . Impossible to search, especially after the first snow. The only thing we had was a witness.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not the shooting,” Landry said. “The other driver was able to describe the car. Late model GMC Sierra. Never found it, though. It was just gone. The other driver’s car was totaled. Get this: a 1963 Chevy Nova, cherry.”

  “Really?”

  “It was cherry until this guy hit it. Now it’s spare parts. Damn, it hurts my soul just to talk about it.”

  “No kidding.” Then Ruckman said, “I have a 1972 Dodge Challenger. Three-hundred-forty-cubic-inch engine, four on the floor—”

  “Oh, man. That’s sweet. I had a ’74 Charger when I was a kid. Wish I had it now.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  A pause as they both cherished their respective cars. Then Landry said, “I thought I should tell you about my guy, just in case they’re the same. I just have this feeling . . . You know the kind. My spidey sense. You say your guy was a pro? Why, because of the body armor? That doesn’t mean anything these days.”

  “Yeah, but this guy was older.” Ruckman lowered his voice. “Early thirties.”

  “You kidding me? That doesn’t fit the profile.”

  “Nope. And he was in prime physical condition.”

  “I just can’t wonder if it’s not the same guy. I used to be in the service—navy—and this looked like a professional job from the get-go. I couldn’t figure it out, why anyone would shoot up a community college. You got a driver’s license at least?”

  “Nope.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Ruckman said. “Nothing. No DL, AFIS has no fingerprints on him, no criminal record, no credit cards, nothing. It’s like he was a ghost.”

  Landry decided to push it up a notch. “So who put him down? I saw that security guard on the TV. Don’t tell me he put him down.”

  Silence.

  Had he gone too far?

  Then Ruckman said, “It was one of our guys.”

  “One of your guys?”

  “Yeah. It was luck. One of our guys, he’s on SWAT, was driving by.”

  Liar. And not a particularly convincing one, either. “Figured it had to be something good,” Landry said. “You get anything at all from the body? Tats, stuff like that?”

  Silence.

  “Was he in the military?”

  Silence. Losing him? But Landry could almost feel it crackling through the air. Like minds. Two cops, smart cops, who’d seen a lot of the world. Both of them ready to retire. Two cops who’d seen a lot.

  The brotherhood.

  Landry decided to push it. “He was in the military, wasn’t he?”

  And then the dam broke.

  “You know what I think?” Ruckman said. “He was elite. In fact, I know he was elite.”

  Landry whistled. “Special Forces?”

  “I can’t say. And do not say a word to anyone—we’re not releasing that. This is between you and me, okay? We’re still trying to figure out who he is. So you’ll send me what you have on your investigation?” He rattled off his e-mail address.

  Landry said, “Will do. But I gotta ask. How did anyone get the drop on this guy? He sounds like a pro.”

  A pause. Then, “Beats me.”

  “And you can’t find out who he is? Dental charts?”

  “None.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “No fingerprints on file.”

  Now Ruckman was acting cagey.

  Landry said, “Tell you what, if he is my guy, I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “It’s possible you’ll never know.” The man’s voice was suddenly weary. “This guy, you ask me, is off the grid. Maybe former Navy SEAL or Delta Force or something like that, and either he snapped or someone hired him to shoot those kids.”

  “Hired? Seriously?”

  “It’s a theory. Too bad whoever took him out killed him instantly.”

  “The SWAT guy.”

  “Yeah. The SWAT guy.” Just a tiny hesitation in Ruckman’s voice when he said it. Landry was right. Ruckman was not a good liar.

  Landry regretted he’d taken the shooter out. Too late now.

  Ruckman added, “Now he’s just a John Doe. We might never know. I think he’s a ghost. But send me what you got, okay? You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

  “Will do.”

  Landry disconnected. He looked at his watch. He had about twenty minutes left before the woman came back. Ten minutes by his reckoning, because he always cut his window of opportunity in half. As far as he was concerned, that was standard operating procedure.

  He had seventy-two hours at the most before Ruckman realized he’d been scammed—if he ever realized it at all. Landry had to move quickly to talk to the FBI special agent, Andrew Keller. If Ruckman discovered Landry wasn’t who he said he was, he would tell the SA, so it was now or never.

  First, though, he had to know who Keller was. He needed to learn everything he could about the man’s interests and passions.

 
He Googled Andrew Keller and found some interesting things right off the bat. Keller was a member in good standing with the NRA and aligned himself with the conservative right. This was a perfect way in. Landry had pulled the politics lever on countless occasions—with people on both ends of the political spectrum—and achieved excellent results. It was easy to assimilate the lingo and talking points of the target’s political faction, inserting key words and phrases into the conversation and conveying the potent message that they were brothers under the skin.

  Landry himself was apolitical. He thought all politicians were just out for what they could get, and would say anything to anybody to keep feeding off the public trough. But politics was an important tool if used correctly. For the conservatives Landry used words like “tyranny,” “oppression,” and “the nanny state”; for liberals he used “troglodyte,” “fairness,” and “war on women.”

  But this time Landry discarded the political angle. He didn’t want to go for the obvious. FBI agents, in general, weren’t dumb, and it was possible that Keller himself might have perfected the same ploy. It was too risky; the SA would know a put-up job when he saw one. So Landry looked for something less volatile and more specific. With Ruckman, it was muscle cars.

  With Keller, it was fishing.

  Strangely enough, considering how covert and elite the FBI considered itself, Keller had a Facebook page.

  Facebook was the easiest way for any stranger to figure out what made a person tick. Landry was surprised that a special agent would have a profile page, but then he guessed FBI agents were like anybody else. Looking at Andrew Keller’s timeline photo said it all. While he wasn’t shy about right-wing causes, his real love lay in hunting and fishing.

  Fly-fishing, mostly. Landry appreciated that in the man, since he was a fly-fisherman himself.

  Landry searched Google for Montana resorts and found several near Kalispell that ran packing trips for hunters and fishermen. One in particular stood out—a family concern, catering to sportsmen since 1926. Landry modeled his own imaginary family business, High Mountain Outdoor Adventures, on the Kalispell outfit. He swiped a few generic Google images he could send to his new buddy Andrew: a scenic lake mirroring pine and fir, a pine log mansion, packing guides on horses wending their way through hip-deep meadows, and a fisherman up to the waist of his wader boots in a swirling river.