by Randall Wood
“Good.”
Paul looked at Sam. Sam was always full of energy, but right now he looked tired. He’d let him sleep before he asked about the lawyer. Maybe he’d wait until morning? He took the exit ramp to US-131 north. Ten minutes to home.
The state of Arizona holds 31,170 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 20,883 are repeat offenders.
—THREE—
“Larry, you draw the kid. The report says he’s traumatized, but see what you can do. You’ll probably have to spend a good deal of time talking to the parents first. Be careful; dad’s a lawyer—a tax lawyer, but a lawyer just the same. If you hit a wall, back off; we can come back later. Then hook up with this Chief Sanchez’s boys and canvas the homes in the area. Find out who they hire to do the yards and pools and whatever. Get a list. After that, get a hold of this construction company and talk to everyone working that site for the past two weeks. Mel might have some of this started already, so check with him first. Got all that?”
The plane had just left the tarmac, and Jack was game planning their arrival before he got into the faxes he had to read. Larry had a degree in psychology from the University of Michigan, so he always got the fun interviews. He watched Larry scribbling furiously in his own private short-hand.
“Not a problem, Jack, but I might need some help. My Spanish is worse than yours and I’m sure most of the help down there speaks it.”
“Point taken. I’ll bet Mel has somebody you can bring along.” Jack was planning to call Mel Dexter, Special Agent in Charge of the Orlando office, when this meeting was over. He didn’t know Mel, but he had a good reputation for combating the drug flow through central Florida.
“Dave, I need you to talk to the wife, secretary, girlfriends, golfing buddies, and anyone else you can think of. Get records of his most recent cases and find out if he received any threats. This guy probably got a lot of them. Try his business partners. I doubt you’ll get a lot of help, but try anyway. See if he was involved with some of his less-clean clients on a business level. Pick through his life, I want to know everything he did for the past two weeks.”
Dave just nodded and moved to the other end of the plane to talk with his partner. Dave was not one to comment a great deal. His head, however, was a vault. When Dave was done, he would know all he needed to know about the late T. Carlton Addicot.
Jack looked down at notes he had made on the ride in. What’s next? He looked up to see Sydney looking back at him from across the plane. “Syd, I need you to split your team; work the car, the body, and the scene. I’m sure Mel had the car moved by now, so hookup with his guys and talk to the medical examiner. Work fast, but don’t miss anything; the press will have the truth soon, and we can’t have any mistakes. This will not become another Hollywood trial.”
“Okay, we’ll be careful.” Sydney would do a good job, he was sure. Small mistakes could become serious at trial. This was also Jack’s first case without his mentor. Deacon was taking a chance on him, despite his success on the last case. Same chance he was taking on her. She wouldn’t fail him.
Larry had stopped scribbling. “Where are you gonna be, Jack?”
“I’ll be at the crime scene. I want to see just how good this shooter is.” He picked up his pile of paper and began reading. Meeting over.
“What about the letter?” Dave’s partner asked at the other end of the plane.
“Could be just to throw us off, could be the real thing,” Dave replied. “First we have to rule out everything else. I’m sure the guys in Behavioral Science are reading it this minute.”
The new guy nodded and began reading the victim’s last year’s tax report.
The faxes Jack held confirmed his opinion of T. Carlton Addicot. T. (Theodore) had started in his father’s firm of Wall Street lawyers right out of law school. His father was tight with money, and had made T. work his way up like all the others. T. quickly tired of the ninety-hour work weeks and slumming with the other associates. Feeling he was better than them, he had only stayed until opportunity arose. When a file crossed his desk that had potential for a large settlement, T. swiped it and started his own one-man firm. The case had turned out to be better than T. had imagined. The employee of a large chemical company was having health problems, and believed the chemicals he worked with might have been to blame. With a little investigating, and the help of a disgruntled security guard, T. had discovered half the plant with the same symptoms. He signed them all up and sued. The company settled and T. became a wealthy man.
No longer needing his daddy’s money, he set out to build himself a mass tort machine. What followed was twenty-five years of lawsuits, all aimed at large companies and defective products. Everything from diet pills to tobacco to lead paint. He now owned his own building in downtown Orlando, complete with eighteen lawyers, two accountants, eight marketers, four researchers, and countless paralegals and secretaries.
He also owned four houses, a cattle ranch, two boats, and a new Gulfstream 5 jet. His current net worth was somewhere in the three hundred and fifty million-dollar range. T. also had a partnership with a lawyer in every state, which helped sign up the clients faster. His ads were on the television morning and evening, the better to make folks worry all night or all day, and drive them to his hotline to get signed up. He’d been on the cover of a few magazines, never with much good said about him. His firm and wealth now dwarfed his father’s, and T. had even more ideas lined up for the future. Friends included some of the country’s sleaziest criminal and mass tort lawyers, and they sometimes worked with one another on the big suits. T. Addicot had made so many enemies that there was really no good place to start Jack’s murder investigation. The only thing Jack did know was that T. had struck no deals with the government to talk about any of his clients. He had not informed the FBI or local police of any threats on his life.
“Well, that just leaves every client he had ever screwed and about two dozen large corporations that he’s taken for millions each.” Jack cursed to himself. “I’ll have this cleared up in a week.” No one would say T. had it coming, but they would all think it. Even himself, Jack admitted. The man knew how to pervert the judicial system, just like the letter said.
How to proceed? Do I treat this as an individual case, or do I factor in the letter and try to see where it’s going next? The professional side of him knew to dot the i’s and cross the t’s on the Addicot shooting first, but the cowboy in him wanted to run with the letter end. No, Deacon had given him this case to run, a big step for someone with his amount of time in the Bureau. He’d go by the book until it was time not to or the director gave him the go-ahead. The letter writer claimed to have skills. Well, Jack knew how to shoot too. He would see when he got there if the shooter was true to his word. That would either bolster the letter’s claim, or mark the writer as an amateur. An amateur—even a determined one—could be counted on to make mistakes, mistakes that would lead to his or her arrest within a short time. A professional could keep this up for years as long as he minimized chance and covered his tracks. Unlike on television, a true professional was not often caught unless they made a mistake, had an unlucky occurrence, or just plain got sloppy. As he read the letter for the seventh time, Jack was hoping for an amateur, but his gut was saying professional.
One hour left until arrival. Just enough time to read all the newspaper articles that had accompanied the letter. Jack settled in and tuned out the conversations around him.
• • •
Paul was worried. But then, he was always worried about Sam. Sam had collapsed in bed as soon as they got home, and now Paul was sitting in front of the computer, trying to determine what he might wish to do next. Or maybe who was the better choice of words? Sam would sleep for the next twelve hours, Paul was sure, so he would just have to wait to hear the details on the lawyer. CNN hadn’t really added to the story since they started covering it, and although he knew it would be inaccurate, he kept the station on.
Sam
had gotten away clean. Of this, Paul was sure. Sam knew what he was doing in that regard and Paul had little doubt in his abilities.
The scanner in the corner squawked to life, announcing a fire on the other side of town. The township fire department was responding. Paul watched his fish swim around in its bowl on his desk as the volunteers called themselves en route one by one.
Paul sat up and logged onto the Internet to double check the trip to Las Vegas. The hotel and two rental cars were all booked with verification numbers. The rentals had unlimited miles. The storage facility had been rented for three months. The hardware should be right where he left it.
The fire was a residential home, with smoke showing from the roof. The firemen would have some work tonight. The chief called for another truck and an ambulance on stand-by. The scanner was putting out a lot of radio chatter. The fish was not impressed.
Paul went over his activities for the past month. The IDs he had obtained in Canada were first-rate. He had already used a few while shopping for the items Sam needed. Nevada was the perfect place to shop. With all the mining in the area, explosives could be bought with nothing more than a valid driver’s license. Blasting caps and wire were as easy to acquire as a gallon of milk. He had made a total of eight trips to find the rifles that Sam had demanded. Expensive Remingtons, but money was not a real problem. Handguns had been purchased on the streets in Chicago, Vegas and Detroit. A turn on his vertical lathe in the garage had stripped the serial numbers and made them all untraceable. A few probably had some crime attached to them, but Paul had no choice in the matter. Reputable dealers were not an option. Sam preferred 9mm automatics, so pistol choices were plentiful. Sam’s experience, and some books bought at the local army surplus stores, had solved the explosive device problem. In the movies everyone had sexy plastic explosives with digital detonators so the crowd could see just how close the hero was to death when he defused the thing. Paul laughed. The dynamite combined with some Wal-Mart wire and a few items from the local hobby shop and they did just fine. No glamour, but then there would be no cameras rolling when they used it.
The house was now fully involved. The family was out, so it was now a “Surround and Drown,” as the fireman liked to call it. Too bad for the family; the area the fire was in was not a rich one, and he hoped they had good insurance. The fish was still not interested; his world did not know fire.
Paul swiveled his chair to reach his laptop. The laptop was always close and never plugged into the Internet. After booting it up and activating several layers of security, he saw the list of all the assets obtained for the projected jobs. They potentially had enough for ten. But that was up to Sam. Originally, the list had been thirty, but Sam knew they would never last that long. The list had been chopped to twenty, then to ten. Starting where they really wanted would have been too personal, so they picked the mark that would cause a good media draw and help get the letter out.
The letter. Paul punched it up and read it again. They had gone through several drafts, and argued over the content. Paul had wanted it to be more threatening, while Sam had wanted to spell out the reasoning in more detail. They had finally decided on a wording that appeared intelligent—yet irrational, threatening, but not crazy—but above all, serious and determined. They hoped the FBI experts did not see through them.
Paul looked over the plans and tried to find holes. Any contingency that had not been addressed. Time was not on their side, and they could not afford any mistakes. An hour later he sat back and looked at the fish. The bowl sat next to the pile of medications which had gone untouched. The firemen were going home.
The state of Arkansas holds 13,084 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 8,766 are repeat offenders.
—FOUR—
The Letter
Jack Randall, FBI
Hoover Building
935 Pennsylvania Ave., NW
Washington DC 20535-0001
The American judicial system has failed myself and all of America with its endless loopholes and technicalities. This system shows no sign of change or a willingness to do so. The lawyers and their politicians have repeatedly corrupted the legal world to aid the criminal in their goals, allowing them to bend the laws in their favor. The system has no sense of itself. The goal of the lawyer is no longer to see justice prevail, or to make the punishment fit the crime. The plea bargain, reduced sentencing, and early release, have become the norm. Criminals who are jailed learn from their fellow criminals how to manipulate the courts to a standstill with no formal legal training. This costs the victims’ closure, and the taxpayers millions. Murderers go free. Drugs and lawlessness rule our communities. Prisons have become educational institutes that produce better, smarter criminals. Death penalty recipients take over a decade to receive their sentence. The media broadcast the news daily, and more criminals see the fruits of crime. The risk has become minimal for the criminal in America, and the public suffers.
No more.
Let this letter serve as a warning. If you are guilty and the courts fail the public, we will find you. If you manipulate the system to benefit the criminal, we will find you. If you work within the system and fail your profession, we will be there. We possess the skills. We have acquired the means. We have the will to act where others have failed. Examples will be made. Change must come.
The state of California holds 164,487 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 110,206 are repeat offenders.
—FIVE—
I should have kept Syd here, Jack thought.
The scene of the shooting was one of the strangest Jack had seen. It was also scary; scary in the fact that Jack’s instinct about the shooter’s skill was confirmed within minutes of his arrival. Jack stood where the shooter had lain, and looked toward the intersection. Two hundred yards through some cypress and palm trees with the usual scrub brush. The outline of the shooter’s body was evident in the weeds. Jack could make out the impression of the man’s elbows. See the log that had served as a rest for the rifle, the boot marks. The man had left minimal damage to the site, despite having been there for some time: a cool customer. The man had endured heat, bugs, thirst, and the chance of discovery, to get his shot. Jack took up a prone position behind the sniper’s hide and looked toward the intersection again. No brush had been cleared as far as he could see. Some branches had been broken by the fire crew on their approach, but nothing had been moved to clear the shot. Jack rose to his feet and looked again.
“Hey, Chief?” Jack said over his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Could you have one of your guys picture that stake with the pink ribbon on it and bag it up for me?”
“That construction stake, sure. What the hell for?” Chief Sanchez was watching the young Bureau man with some amusement. He hadn’t seen a man in a suit lay in the dirt like that before.
“It’s called a tell. Snipers use them to gauge the wind at the target,” Jack replied. “But see if it belongs to the clearing crew, just in case.”
“You got it.” The chief turned and pointed to the closest deputy, who picked up his radio.
After another look around, Jack turned and walked indirectly to the site of the fire. The chief followed, giving him a running commentary.
“The deputy responding to the nine-one-one called in the fire soon after arriving. Once the lieutenant saw the rifle and the envelope, he sent his people out and used the CO2 canister to put it out. Afraid there isn’t much left. Our perp used what looks like a gallon of gas to get it started. Besides the rifle, there appears to be some clothes, a gallon milk jug, and maybe a hat. The boy’s father claims to have heard two shots, kinda muffled, just before the fireman arrived; no one to confirm that, I’m afraid. Tracks lead out that way to the side street and disappear. No witnesses, yet.”
“Thanks, Chief. Tell the LT that was some smart thinking with the CO2; may have saved us some evidence not using the chemical extinguisher,” Jack said.
; “Will do. His boss is on vacation. Gonna be pissed that he missed all the fun.”
Jack knelt by the fire and examined the rifle. He recognized the expensive Remington, despite the damage from the fire. The stock was charred and split. The scope’s optics had shattered. Jack could see the tooling marks that now made up the spot where the serial numbers used to be. Not much hope of any fibers or prints. The clothing was much the same. It would all go to the lab anyway. Maybe Sydney and her little band of magicians could find something.
“Must have been a hot fire to bend that barrel like that,” the chief’s deputy commented.
Bend the barrel? Jack straightened up and looked at the barrel again. Taking a step around the fire, he could now see the that last few inches of the barrel possessed a slight bend. Jack looked around the area. Off to one side there was a large rock with a considerable crack in it. He walked over to the rock and shined his flashlight into the crack. Some fresh looking scratches in the rock showed about halfway down. Jack stood and walked back to the fire.
“See these marks on the barrel? No fire bent that. Our shooter bent it in that rock over there,” Jack said.
“Why?”
“So it’s now unusable,” The chief lectured his deputy. “No way to match it with any slugs fired. How about the shell casings?”
“We can match them to the gun’s chamber,” Jack replied, “providing our boy didn’t destroy it, too. Chief?” Jack motioned for the chief to follow.
“First,” Jack said, “I’d like to say that you and your men have done a nice piece of work here. Good preservation of the scene. But there’s one thing I’m really concerned about.”
“The letter,” Sanchez said.
“Exactly. From the looks of things here, you and I both know this guy is serious and no amateur at what he does. If that letter leaks to the press, catching this guy will only get harder. The press will make his crusade a public one, which is exactly what he wants. The more press he gets, the more bodies we’re likely to see. I need you to put a thumb on your men, and I mean hard. Somebody tells a wife or a girlfriend, or lets it slip down at the bar, and it’s all over the papers. Tell them that I intend to go after anyone who leaks this with a federal vengeance. Will your boys play?” Jack gave the chief his hardest look.