Head Shot

by Otho Eskin

  It comes back to me: the mystery-book writer.

  “I told you to stay away from the theater.”

  “I know who killed Victoria West. He’s going to find me.”

  “Get out of there,” I tell him.

  “I know how it was done.”

  “Are you listening to me? Get out. You’re trespassing. You’re breaking the law.”

  “You were right. It was never a locked room mystery at all. It was always misdirection.”

  “Leave now!”

  “I can’t. I can hear him moving around backstage. He’s looking for me. He’s going to kill me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on the stage set. I think he’s heard me. He’s coming now.”

  “I’ll send help.”

  “I hear footsteps.” Aubrey’s voice trembles.

  “I’ll be there right away.”

  The phone goes silent.

  I call police dispatch and send a police team to the theater, then call Lucy. “I just talked to a man who’s at the Capitol Theater. He’s that mystery book writer and he’s terrified. He’s in the theater now and claims there’s someone in the theater with him who’s threatening to kill him. I’ve sent a police patrol.”

  “I’ll go now,” she says. “I’ll send a police cruiser to pick you up, and we can meet at the theater.”

  My heart sinks when I reach the Capitol Theater: half a dozen police cruisers are stopped in front, their light bridges flashing red and blue. It’s the middle of the night and it’s raining hard, but a few curious people clutching umbrellas are watching the scene, kept at a distance by uniformed police officers. I rush through the front doors of the theater, hurry through the lobby, and into the auditorium.

  Lucy Tanaka stands on the stage set speaking urgently to a police officer. I run down the aisle and up the steps to the stage.

  Aubrey Sands lies on his back on the floor in the middle of the stage. He wears a pale pink shirt and his eyes are wide open in terror. A golden cord has been wound around his neck, cutting deep into the flesh, leaving a livid wound.

  Lucy stands above him. “This is where I found him. Is he the writer who wanted to help solve the murder case?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “I’ve called Hanna and the medical examiner personnel,” Lucy says, “And I deployed officers at all entrances. The building is in lockdown in case the killer’s still in the building. I’ll do a search.”

  “I can do that,” I say.

  “It’s my case. My responsibility. I’ll take the search.”

  “Be careful,” I say. “The man who did this may be armed and is certainly dangerous and desperate.”

  Lucy opens her jacket and takes her Glock service weapon from her shoulder holster. “I’m ready.”

  Hanna and the medical team arrive and go directly to the body. “Dead,” Hanna announces. “Looks like the victim was strangled. At …”

  “At around two thirty-two or soon after,” I say. “I spoke with the victim on the phone at two thirty-two.”

  “It looks like he was strangled with this fancy gold cord,” Hanna says.

  “It was a part of a prop,” I say. “The cord was attached to the hilt of the saber hanging above the fireplace.”

  I step into the empty drawing room. It’s as I remember it from the night of Victoria West’s murder except now there are traces of fingerprint powder on the doors and around the walls, and the outline of a body in white tape is on the floor marking the place where Vickie died.

  I try to concentrate and visualize the room as Aubrey must have seen it. I shut out the voices of the medical team and the crime scene technicians and immerse myself in the room, breathe its air.

  What did Aubrey see that I’m not seeing? I wonder.

  Lucy joins me. “I’ve checked the backstage area and the dressing rooms. So far, we’ve found no one. I’m starting on the rest of the building.”

  “Be sure to take a uniformed cop with you.”

  “Will do.”

  Lucy’s nervous and wound up—that’s not her. It’s late and we’re all tired. But it’s more than that. Something has gotten to Lucy. I can tell.

  It takes us more than an hour to complete a preliminary investigation and to secure the crime scene.

  “There’s nobody in the building,” Lucy says when she joins me on the set. “We’ve gone from the attic to the basement, including the shop.”

  “I expect the killer’s long gone,” I say.

  “Did Sands tell you anything about his attacker?”

  “Nothing. But he did say it wasn’t a ‘locked room’ murder. He told me it was all misdirection.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “Have you ever seen a professional magician show? They do all these elaborate tricks using complicated sets and capes and top hats and wands and attractive women and bunny rabbits. That’s all meant to distract the audience. Most of the tricks are done by sleight of hand. Done in plain sight but in a way the audience doesn’t see it happen. It’s all misdirection.”

  Lucy and I leave the theater together and we sit in her car, Lucy in the driver’s seat. I sense she needs to talk.

  The windshield is smeared with rain and we stare through the glass at the blurred red and blue flashing psychedelic lights of the emergency vehicles parked in front of the theater. We watch in silence as the medical team rolls a gurney with the ruined body of Aubrey Sands covered in a heavy cloth and places him into an ambulance.

  “Have you ever killed anybody?” Lucy asks, out of the blue.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. I’m worried about her.

  “I’m wondering whether I might have made a mistake,” Lucy says at last. She doesn’t start the engine but sits, gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles white, not looking at me. “Getting into police work, I mean. Maybe I’m not cut out for this job.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of quitting on me. You’re a good cop.”

  “Police work is what I’ve always wanted to do. Now I’m having doubts.”

  “Seeing the man killed like that … that was a shock. It would be a shock for anybody. Nothing wrong with feeling upset.”

  “Some people thought,” Lucy says, “at least in my family—they thought it wasn’t natural for a girl to be a cop. My parents’ dream was for me to become a dentist or something. At least a dental hygienist. But I chose law enforcement. I believe there are people who want to destroy the foundations of our civilization, people who steal and cheat and kill. And they’ll keep doing it unless somebody stands up to them. Someone has to be willing to defy the barbarians—to stand at the gate—or civilization will collapse.” Lucy looks at me, an embarrassed smile on her lips. “Does that sound as pretentious to you as it sounds to me?”

  “Do you think the barbarians are getting through the gate?” I ask. “There are days when I think so.”

  She sits for a long moment in silence, struggling for words, then looks directly at me. “Tonight—suppose the killer had been hiding in the theater somewhere? Suppose I’d walked in on him? Suppose the killer had a gun? Waiting for me?”

  “It’s okay to be scared. We’re all scared in situations like that. It’s only natural.”

  “That’s not it. Being scared—I can deal with that.” She pauses. “Do you know I’ve never had to use my weapon except in training exercises. Not once. Not in a real situation. Suppose I’d faced the killer tonight?”

  “You’ve been trained for that.”

  “I’m not sure how I’d act. Tonight, searching backstage—it suddenly came to me—suppose I came face-to-face with the killer? I’m not sure I could shoot a man. Not even to save a life. Not even to save my own life.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT’S ALMOST FIVE in the morning when my phone rings. Right when I’m finally falling asleep, of course. I’d just gotten in after I’d seen that Lucy was safe at home. She’s anxious and I know I’m going to have to do someth
ing for her.

  “I have something you must see,” a voice on the phone says.

  It takes me a few seconds to recognize Paul Whitestone’s voice. He never identifies himself on the phone—for obvious reasons—although I’m sure the FBI and the National Security Agency have voice-recognition software that will identify him. I’m not pleased to be wakened at this hour, but I suppose I should be grateful that Paul and his hacker collective are still working this late at night on the decoding project I gave them.

  “You’ve broken the code?” I ask.

  “In part.”

  “Can it wait till tomorrow?”

  “It is tomorrow. Your life depends upon you seeing this. Trust me.”

  He gives me the address of a Starbucks on Wisconsin Avenue. “Take an outside table; away from other people. Seven sharp. I won’t wait.”

  The phone connection goes dead.

  It’s much too early in the morning to call Lieutenant Bonifacio. I figure he deserves a good night’s sleep, so I collect my new rental car that I’d parked in my garage—a beat-up old Kia—and arrive at the rendezvous ten minutes early and survey the area to ensure no unwanted guests are hanging around. I buy the largest coffee Starbucks has to offer and sit at an empty outside table, above which stands a large green umbrella that gives me some protection from the light drizzle. There are a few other customers at the other table, who look like nurses and technicians headed for early shifts at nearby doctors’ offices.

  Today’s Metro section contains several articles about Victoria West, most of them complaining about the incompetence of the hapless Metropolitan Police. I see nothing about the murder of Aubrey Sands. Of course, the print edition would have gone to press too early for that story, but on my iPad his murder is spread all over the Post’s website: “Distinguished Writer Murdered!” “Mystery at Scene of Murder of Famous Actress.” “Mystery Author Found Dead in Theater.”

  Paul Whitestone takes a seat opposite me, his face strained. “What the fuck have you gotten yourself into this time, Marko?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Last night—about two in the morning—we made a partial breakthrough. Enough to read part of the message you gave me. Enough to know I don’t want to read the rest.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to tell me what it says?”

  “It means we’re done. I’ve ordered every note the team made—every query—destroyed, erased from our hard drives. If we’re ever raided, there’ll be no evidence. I told the boys to go home. I’m dissolving Kosmic Anomaly. It’s time the kids got a life.”

  Paul takes a sheet of crumpled paper, slightly coffee-stained, from his pocket and places it on the table between us. I can see it’s a copy of the encrypted message I gave him, now covered with handwritten notations in various colors.

  “The text you gave us appears to be the end of a much longer message. Tommy first hacked the embassy’s clear-text communications, the stuff they send back and forth dealing with administrative matters. These messages can give us clues about what’s in coded messages—certain repeated phrases such as greetings and titles and common references.”

  “I get it.” I’m impatient and wish Paul would get to the point. “What did the message say?”

  “‘Eyes only’ ‘For the ambassador.’ Then stuff we couldn’t read but which seemed to do with an important trip. We recognized some of the names you gave us. ‘Nina Voychek’ and ‘Goran Drach.’”

  “Go on.”

  “And a word that made no sense at first but which seemed to be a name: Domino. Then Tommy had one of his epiphanies. Tommy worked out the date-time signatures. From there he was able to work out several passages. Of course, they were in some Slavic language so we had to translate what we had, which was a complication as our translation staff is a fourteen-year-old kid who wanted to play Mortal Combat instead. Tommy finally worked out one full sentence.”

  “What did the damn thing say?”

  “When Tommy showed me the translation, I closed down the project and sent everyone home. That’s when I knew it was time to terminate Kosmic Anomaly.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “See for yourself.” He pushes the page across the table to me.

  I put on my glasses and read quickly through the message. In between what seem to be random numbers are mysterious handwritten notations. When I look up, Paul has gone; I don’t expect to see him again.

  “Oh, shit,” I hear myself saying aloud as I come to the last sentence of the message. Several people look over at me, startled.

  The text reads: Domino advised. Further failures unacceptable. Prime minister and Zorn must die before PMs departure from US.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  LUCY LOOKS STRESSED this morning and I know I have to do something or she’ll be of no use to me.

  “There’s something I need you to do for me,” I tell her. “I want you to shoot some targets at the firing range.”

  She looks up at me and shakes her head impatiently. “I’m fully qualified on small arms.”

  “I know that but I need to show you something.”

  The range is “cold” this morning—no one is shooting or preparing to shoot.

  Nelson Towne, the chief arms instructor and, this morning, the range master, waves cheerfully from his desk. He is a tall, thin African American dressed, as always, in a business suit, with a vest and jacket and bow tie with polka dots.

  “You here to learn how to shoot, Marko?” he asks. “It’s about time.” Nelson disapproves of the fact I rarely use a weapon—he’s convinced I’m afraid of guns—and he’s also convinced that most police officers on the DC police force are unqualified in the use of firearms. “There’d be a lot fewer deaths if the police learned how to shoot better” has been his mantra for as long as I’ve known him, which has been a long time. Unfortunately, no one pays much attention to him.

  “No shooting for me today, Nelson. But I’d like you to give my partner here, Officer Tanaka, a refresher course in handguns.”

  Nelson looks surprised. “Officer Tanaka’s not on the firing schedule today.”

  “Can you see if you can fit her in? Lucy and I are involved in a murder investigation and last night one of our witnesses was killed. So we know we’re dealing with a dangerous criminal. I’d feel better if Lucy was completely comfortable with shooting her weapon.”

  “Is this really necessary?” Lucy demands. “I know how to shoot. I’ve been through the system. I’m totally comfortable with firing a gun.”

  “I know that. This is different.”

  “Happy to take care of you, Officer Tanaka,” Nelson says.

  Nelson leads Lucy to one of the firing booths and supervises the unloading and inspection of her Glock. They put on ear protectors, and Nelson watches as Lucy prepares her weapon and takes a shooter’s stance. I retreat to the waiting room outside where it’s quiet.

  After fifteen minutes, Lucy emerges from the range, holding a paper target, folded neatly into squares.

  “How’d you do?” I ask.

  “Take a look for yourself.” She unfolds the target showing the silhouette of a man holding something in his right hand, maybe a knife, maybe a gun. Three shots entered the target’s upper abdomen; two more struck the chest.

  “Good shooting,” I say.

  She looks at me intently. “But you don’t really think it was good shooting, do you? You think I could have done better.”

  “Look at the silhouette,” I say. “It’s supposed to be a man, maybe six feet tall.”

  “Around that.”

  “Maybe two hundred pounds. Maybe more.”

  “I hit him right in the chest.”

  “This is not a TV show like The Phantom, where the hero takes one shot and his opponent goes down. That’s not the way it works.”

  “How is this different?”

  “Your aim was great—perfect even—but you failed. You didn’t achieve what you had to in a gunfight.”


  “What didn’t I achieve? I shot the bastard.” Lucy’s getting defensive, even angry at me.

  “Your primary objective in a gunfight is to stay alive. To do that, you’ve got to take your opponent out in the first exchange. Your opponent might have been wearing body armor. Even if he wasn’t wearing a Kevlar bulletproof vest, you could have lost the fight. You hit your opponent in the chest—a big, heavy man like that—he’d probably still be standing. Especially with you using a small-caliber weapon. He could still stay on his feet long enough to get off a shot at you. He might be fatally wounded, but he’s still extremely dangerous. If he’s big enough and mad enough, he could even charge you, firing his weapon. Remember the mantra for close-quarters shooting—‘one shot one kill’. In a firefight you must be able to immediately disable your opponent.”

  “What would you have done?”

  “Me? I would have gone for a head shot—”

  “Sergeant Towne said I should always shoot for the center mass. That was what I was taught in small-arms training when I entered the police academy. I was told never to shoot for an arm or leg or the head.”

  “That’s what they teach all police recruits. As far as that goes, that’s fine. You shoot for the center mass because that’s an easy target. If you have backup, that will work. But if you’re alone—facing a determined, armed opponent who’s a trained killer—you will fail. I would have shot for the T-Box.”

  “What’s a T-Box?”

  “It’s a target point where the nose meets the forehead. Military and police security shooters aim for the T-Box, especially in hostage situations where there is no time for a second shot.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in guns.”

  “I don’t, but there are times when they are necessary.”

  “The space between the eyes and over the nose is an awfully small target.”

  “Very small. Easy to miss. And if you miss, you’re dead.

  “But you think I should go for a head shot.”

  “You’re a good shot, Lucy. Your target proves that. But I don’t think you’re ready yet. You would have to perfect your hand-eye coordination.”