James 516: A London Carter Novel

by BJ Bourg

  Sheriff Burke glanced at the wall clock, then back at us. “I’m glad y’all finally decided to join us.”

  I nodded my apologies. “I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “It had better not.” Sheriff Burke frowned. “We started thinking one of y’all had been killed. We tried calling both of your phones, but…”

  Bethany mumbled an apology—her face a bright shade of crimson—walked to the front of the room and flipped open her notebook. She stared out over the room of commanders. “We asked the sheriff to get you guys together so we could try and figure out why this killer is targeting captains. In order to figure out who the next target will be, we need to find some common denominators among Wainwright, Landry and Abbott, and we need to figure out if any of you share that connection.” She grabbed a dry erase marker and wrote James 516 on the board. “Does this mean anything to any of you?”

  I studied the faces of the captains who sat around the conference table. They passed glances amongst each other, shrugged, and shook their heads.

  “Anything at all?” Bethany pressed. Still a host of blank stares. “What about cases? Have any of you worked any cases with Wainwright, Landry or Abbott?”

  “None of us have worked cases in years,” Captain Theriot said, “and I’ve never worked the same division as any of them. I was in narcotics when Landry and Abbott were in patrol. Wainwright was in IA back then. Shit, he was in IA for as long as I can remember. I think he was born there.”

  Bethany quickly wrote some notes on the board. “So, Landry and Abbott were in patrol at the same time?”

  Captain Theriot nodded.

  “Any of you were on patrol at the same time?” Bethany asked.

  Captain Martin Thomas, commander of the narcotics division, raised his hand. “I worked patrol at the same time they did, but we were on opposite shifts.”

  “Do you remember them being involved in any major cases together? Where they might’ve put someone away for a bunch of years?” As Bethany spoke and moved about at the front of the room, my mind wandered to the perfect body that rippled under her clothes. I had to shake my head a few times to jog the image loose and I had to force myself to concentrate on the task at hand.

  Thomas shook his head. “We never really handled major investigations on patrol. If we caught a major complaint, we’d call out the detectives and they’d handle it.”

  Bethany studied the board and bit her lower lip.

  As her mind worked, I stepped up. “Have any of you ever arrested an ex-soldier or law enforcement officer who might’ve been trained as a sniper?”

  More blank stares and shoulder shrugs.

  “That’s not something we would’ve known,” Theriot said. “I did handle some cases in narcotics that involved some pretty unsavory characters, but those guys weren’t precision shooters. They were the spray-n-pray type. They liked doing drive-bys with cheap semi-automatic rifles. Besides, they were too stupid to pull off this type of organized attack against us, and they wouldn’t know the difference between a captain and a trustee.”

  Heads nodded and a low buzz of agreement sounded around the room. Chief Garcia spoke up. “Detective Pellegrin, you seem to think this was some sort of religious warning. They told me you said James five-sixteen is a Bible verse that says something about confessing your sins?”

  Gina—very careful not to make eye contact with me—nodded her head. “That’s the most likely meaning of the message. It says something about”—she glanced down at her notepad—“confessing your sins and praying for each other. I’m thinking the killer wants someone to confess to something.”

  “But we’re the good guys,” Captain Theriot said, “so we wouldn’t be the ones needing to confess any sins. It seems like they’d leave that kind of message for criminals, or Kenneth Lewis—for committing adultery.”

  “You bring up a good point,” Bethany interjected. “Whoever killed them knew about Kenneth Lewis’ affair with Landry’s wife and they knew Wainwright was investigating it. Did any of you know about the affair?”

  There was a long moment of silence and then a low voice came from the back of the room. “I did.” It was newly appointed patrol division commander, Captain Carmella Vizier.

  Chairs rattled and tables creaked as people shifted in their chairs and every head turned to face her.

  “How’d you know about it?” I blurted, remembering Gina had surmised if we found the person who knew about the affair we’d find the killer.

  “Anthony told me he’d been suspecting it,” she said quietly.

  I studied Captain Vizier. She couldn’t be the killer. I’d seen her at yearly firearms qualifications, and she couldn’t hit water if she aimed out at the ocean, so she definitely didn’t have the skills to pull off the kinds of shots that had been killing our captains.

  “Did you tell anyone else about the affair?” I wanted to know.

  “No. He asked me not to say anything, so I didn’t.”

  “What else did he tell you?” Bethany asked.

  “Nothing, really. He asked what he should do, so I told him he should file a complaint against Kenneth with IA, but he said he didn’t know you”—she nodded toward Bethany—“very well and didn’t know if he could trust you to keep it quiet. I told him he should hire a private investigator to follow them around.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s what he did.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything about this earlier?” Sheriff Burke demanded.

  “Because I didn’t think that had anything to do with what’s happening.”

  That got my attention. “Why not?”

  “I think that was all a distraction to get us looking somewhere else while the killer was setting up his next victim.”

  “Where’d you dream up this theory?” Captain Theriot asked harshly.

  “This is purely speculation on my part,” Vizier said, her eyes focusing on the table in front of her, “but I don’t think the affair had anything to do with the killings.”

  Major Lawrence Doucet leaned forward, resting his thick, hairy forearms on the table. His beady eyes focused on Captain Vizier. “If you know something about these murders, you’d better speak up.”

  The color drained from Vizier’s face. “I-I don’t know anything,” she stammered. “I just don’t think it’s connected to the affair.”

  “You’re a potential victim, not an investigator,” Captain Theriot said. “So you might want to keep your hunches to yourself.”

  Bethany and I traded curious looks. I shrugged, while she continued addressing the group. She pointed to Detective Ford. “Melvin, did you run background checks on all the people listed on the canvass sheets from the neighborhood where Captain Landry was murdered?”

  Melvin nodded. “They were all clean, except for a few kids with criminal records, but those were misdemeanors. Nothing that stood out.”

  Bethany bit her lower lip as she studied her notes. She glanced up and nodded toward Gina. “Did you ever get to complete the canvass of Captain Landry’s neighborhood?”

  I held my breath as I watched Gina’s eyes narrow and her lips press together. She was silent for a long count of three, and then her face relaxed. She scanned her notes.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said in a strained voice, “I did canvass Anthony’s neighborhood—like I said I would—and I also checked our database to see if there’d been any suspicious person complaints filed. No one from Anthony’s neighborhood saw anything suspicious and the only complaints we’ve had out of that neighborhood over the past six months have been for lock-jobs”—someone locking their keys in their car—“and animals roaming at large.”

  “London,” Sheriff Burke cut in, “what type of skills would someone have to possess in order to make those shots?”

  “His farthest shot was on Captain Landry at four hundred and eleven yards. An average sniper can shoot a four-inch group at that distance, so this guy is exceptional. He knows how to read wind and how to accurately compensate fo
r it. He either has a range finder or he knows how to manually determine distance and compensate for the bullet drop at four hundred yards. If he’s shooting the same type of bullet we use in our sniper rifles, that would be a thirty-five-inch drop—hardly a walk in the park, even for a skilled sniper.”

  “You mean this guy’s better than an average sniper?” Captain Theriot asked.

  “The average police sniper trains once or twice per month and can generally shoot one minute of angle—about one inch at one hundred yards—and they usually only shoot out to a hundred yards because the average shot for a police sniper is between seventy and seventy-five yards.” I pointed to the board where Bethany had written the word Suspect in red. “This guy trains at least once a week, and he’s had extensive experience shooting at longer distances, probably even out to a thousand yards.”

  “Who has a one thousand-yard range?” Theriot asked.

  “There’s one here in Chateau,” I said. “But anyone with the right amount of property can make their own thousand-yard range. Shit, there’s enough public land around that they could be practicing right under our noses and we’d never know it.”

  “What kind of artillery are we looking for?” Sheriff Burke asked.

  “Depending on the brand name, your average sniper rifle typically shoots one minute of angle out the box,” I said, “but that won’t get the job done in these cases. This prick’s not shooting the average sniper rifle. If it’s not a custom made job, it’s definitely been tuned to shoot sub minute of angle. It’ll be topped with a high-quality scope.”

  Sheriff Burke turned to Captain Vizier. “Carmella, you still have that contact at the Daily Magnolia Times?”

  Carmella nodded.

  “Go call her and tell her to put out the word we’re looking for anyone with information on people shooting rifles at shooting ranges or in backyards. If they were at a shooting range and the person next to them was shooting what looked like a sniper rifle, I want to know about it. If they hear regular gunshots in the woods behind their house, I want them to call. If a friend of a friend’s step-uncle’s wife has an older brother who likes to shoot, I want his name.” Burke turned back to me as Carmella gathered her notes and hurried out of the conference room. “Where do people have to go to get sniper training? Wouldn’t they have to be a cop or in the military to attend sniper school?”

  “Normally, yes,” I said, “but nowadays, with all the private security companies employing counter-snipers and conducting their own training, it’s hard to keep track of who’s receiving this type of training. Also, there’s an ass load of literature available to the general public on the finer points of sniping, so anyone can train themselves to be a sniper.”

  “You expect me to believe someone could train themselves to be this good from reading books?” scoffed Captain Tyrone Gibbs, who was the commander of the juvenile division. “Bullshit.”

  “That’s not bullshit,” Gina hissed before I could open my mouth. “London trained himself to be a sniper, and he was the best sniper in the state long before he even attended his first sniper school. He took top shooter at every sniper school he attended.”

  Gibbs looked from me to Gina, then to the sheriff. “Is that true?”

  Sheriff Burke nodded. “We sent him to a national sniper competition, and he took first place. I got to attend the awards ceremony and the instructors didn’t believe us when we told them he hadn’t been to a school yet.”

  “How’d you do it?” Gibbs asked. “I mean, what does it take to get that good? Maybe knowing that will give us an idea of what to look for.”

  “Well, I trained twice a week—four hours on Wednesday nights and eight hours on Sundays—and I shot about five hundred rounds per month.” I rubbed my index and middle fingers against the thumb of my right hand. “It was expensive. Cost me more than a dollar every time I pulled the trigger. But I loved sniping more than anything else in the world and it was worth it to me. This person we’re dealing with…he went through a lot of trouble and expense to become good at killing.”

  I looked from one captain to the other, staring each of them directly in the eye for a full second before moving to the next. “Somebody…somewhere…did something really bad to piss this bastard off, and now he’s taking it out on y’all.”

  “Why do you think that?” Captain Theriot asked. “These could just be random killings by some lunatic.”

  “If they were drive-bys—that would be one thing. Anyone can do a drive-by.” I shook my head. “This guy’s on a mission. If any of y’all have any idea why someone would want to target y’all, speak up…or more of y’all will die.”

  “What if he’s already killed who he wanted to kill?” Captain Thomas asked.

  “Do you want to stand out there”—I pointed to the streets—“and find out?” When Thomas didn’t respond, I continued. “Y’all need to think really hard. Is there anything any of you have ever been involved with—good or bad—that might make someone want to target y’all? Come on. Now’s not the time to be bashful. Cough it up.”

  “Are you trying to blame us for these murders?” Captain Theriot asked. His face was red and his thick eyebrows were furrowed. “Are you saying we’re somehow responsible for what this cowardly bastard is doing?”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing, no matter how horrific, justifies the murders. We’re just trying to do our jobs. If we can figure out why this is happening, we can figure out who is doing it.”

  The entire room fell into a long silence. I scanned the faces, trying to read the expression on each of the captains, wondering which one of them held the keys to why this was happening. I wondered if one or more of them had been involved in something shady in their past—and if that something shady was now catching up with them. What if Gina was right? What if James five-sixteen was a Bible verse? What if the killer did want them to confess to some sin? Would they give in and confess, or would they allow more blood to flow just to protect their own selfish—

  “Sheriff Burke!” Kimberly Weimer, Sheriff Burke’s secretary, burst through the door of the conference room. “Quick! Turn on the TV!”

  CHAPTER 24

  Someone grabbed the remote and switched on the large flat-screen television. It was already set to the local news channel, and we immediately recognized that the news reporter was standing right outside our main office building. We all leaned forward to hear what he was saying.

  “…outside of the sheriff’s office in Magnolia Parish, where three captains have been gunned down in recent sniper attacks. Sources tell us that the remaining captains and other high ranking officials are barricaded in this building and they are expected to remain inside until investigators apprehend this highly skilled and elusive killer.”

  “Who the hell told them that?” Sheriff Burke wanted to know.

  “When asked earlier if he planned to bring in the FBI, Sheriff Calvin Burke said that this is a local matter and that his deputies are more than qualified to bring this case to a successful resolution. Calls to Sheriff Burke have gone unanswered. Dawn, back to you.”

  The image switched to the studio and the woman named Dawn smiled into the camera.

  “With us tonight in our New Orleans studio is nationally-renowned FBI criminal profiler Dexter Myers. Mr. Myers, can you tell what type of individual might be responsible for these heinous crimes?”

  The suit flashed a fake smile and nodded. “Thank you, Dawn. In a nutshell, this killer is most likely a white male in his mid-thirties and he was probably recently fired from his job. He will be a weapons collector and will most likely have a library of military and police books. His personality traits will include—”

  The television suddenly went black. Sheriff Burke tossed the remote on the conference table. “To hell with them idiots. That’s nearly the same profile they released for the DC-area sniper and the Baton Rouge serial killer…and they were wrong both times.”

  “They play the numbers game,” Captain Theriot said. “Sometimes
they get lucky and sometimes they don’t. When they don’t, they waste precious time and get more people killed.”

  Most of the officers in the room nodded in agreement. Some of them grumbled their disdain for the FBI. Sheriff Burke leaned against the table, exhausted. He rubbed his face. “Where do we go from here?” He was met with silence. “Anyone got any ideas?”

  More silence.

  “I think the answer’s in this room,” I finally said. “We’ve got to sit here until somebody figures out what it is they have in common with Abbott, Landry and Wainwright—no matter how slight.”

  The men and women in the room stared at each other. Some whispered back and forth, presumably trying to figure out what was getting them killed off one at a time. Five minutes later, the phone at the center of the conference table buzzed and Kimberly Weimer’s voice came through the loudspeaker, calling Sheriff Burke’s name. Sheriff Burke acknowledged her. “What is it?”

  “I’ve got a call for Sergeant Carter,” she called through the loudspeaker. “It was patched in from dispatch. It’s some man who says he knows something about the case. I told him Sergeant Carter was in a meeting and asked if he wanted to speak with someone else, but he said he would only speak with the sergeant.”

  Sheriff Burke shot me a look. I quickly moved to the corner of the table, near the phone.

  “Put him through,” Sheriff Burke ordered. He turned and shushed the rest of the room. “Not a word!”

  The phone buzzed again, and Sheriff Burke looked up at me. “Ready?”

  I nodded.

  Sheriff Burke pressed the button that was blinking and stepped back.

  “Hello, this is London Carter,” I said, leaning forward. “I understand you have some information about the case we’re working.”

  “Sergeant London Carter,” a muffled voice said through the phone’s speaker, “I know why these killings are taking place.”