[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  The chief paused to adjust his seat. He flipped through his notebook for more points to cover. “Search of the room turned up no listening devices. Phones were clean. No cameras.” He looked up at Sydney. “That doesn’t help your theory.” He went on. “We’re also reviewing the staff and security personnel, but since they’re all checked prior to employment by the hotel and the gaming commission, I’m not optimistic. A long list, with not much to follow-up on.” He looked at Jack. “We’ll forward anything we have to you as it comes up.” He flipped his notebook shut.

  Sydney stood up and opened the file in her hand. “Overall picture is not pointing toward any specific direction. We’re working on the theory that the target was under surveillance, but we have yet to determine how. Video from the hotels is still under review. We also have film from airport security to watch.” She shot a frown at Jack. “Should take a few days. Pending that, we’re open to ideas.”

  “Inside guy?” Jack asked.

  “Negative,” Larry spoke up. “Got a call from Dave in LA. The man’s crew has been with him for years, and all agencies deny having a man on the inside. He’s still going through a mountain of background. You know Dave; he’ll pick till he’s done. Till then, we wait.”

  Jack tapped his pen on the table before he spoke. “Thanks everybody; some good work all around. It looks like we need to wait for more. Until then, everybody, get some sleep. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.” Jack rubbed his face; he needed a shave.

  Sydney watched everybody file out, leaving piles of paper on the table. She caught Eric looking at her as he left. He shut the door behind him.

  She turned to see Jack grinning at her. “Nothing like teenage hormones, huh, Syd?”

  “Very funny. What is he, twelve?”

  “Twenty-one actually, and taking a year off from MIT for some reason the chief didn’t elaborate on. Genius IQ. I was quite impressed with his graphic of the scene, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Why? Are you thinking about hiring him?”

  “Something tells me he wouldn’t get much done on your team,” Jack joked.

  “Well, I’m at the stage where I’m happy they still look anymore.” She began to stack up the files.

  Jack looked her over. She was as beautiful as when they had been in college. Sydney was a very smart and driven woman. Why she was still single, he knew only too well. Despite her good looks and intelligence, she was married to her job. She liked bugs, and bullets, and dead bodies. Something most men had a problem with. He wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I don’t believe that for a second,” Jack replied.

  Sydney turned her head and looked at Jack. He still knew what she was thinking, after all these years: why hadn’t they stayed together? She had found herself asking that a lot, in the last year. Someday, they would have to have a conversation on the subject, but this was not the place.

  “Thanks, Jack. Girl needs to hear that once in a while.” She picked up the stack of files. “I’m going to go back to the hotel and get something to eat. After that, I plan to try to get through at least one file before using it for a pillow. Good luck with your phone call.” She smiled over her shoulder at him as she left the room.

  “Thanks,” he replied. He wondered which call she meant: the one to the boss or the one to his wife.

  The state of Kentucky holds 16,622 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 11,136 are repeat offenders.

  —SEVENTEEN—

  Sam sat on the steps of the courthouse with several other people enjoying their lunch. The weather was typical southern California: seventy degrees with mild humidity, and a slight wind out of the west, which Sam measured by observing the decorative flags displayed around the square. He slowly worked on a yellow legal pad in his lap between bites from his deli sandwich. Several people around him were doing the same thing, most with a cell phone going at the same time. Dressed in a suit and sporting a briefcase, he blended right in.

  Unlike his fellow lunch eaters, Sam was neither deep into some legal document, nor into planning his next courtroom strategy. The young paralegal next to him would probably have been shocked to learn that Sam was drawing a range card. A detailed sketch of the town square with the courthouse at the top center of the page. From his position, exactly twenty-two yards south by south-west of the building’s side entrance, Sam could see several possible positions he might utilize. He sketched in obstacles such as trees and bushes, power lines, and a fountain. He took counts of traffic, both pedestrian and motor.

  All of this went into notations at the bottom of the drawing. Wind direction and speed went on the margins. The angle of the sun and possible reflections were noted on a separate piece of paper, as well as possible dead space—space which would be behind cover from his vantage point. In the pictures he had seen when downloading the articles, he knew there would be protestors tomorrow. Some would be waving signs that might block his view. He looked down the square as he finished the last bite of his sandwich and measured angles.

  Time to take a walk. He looked at his watch. On the side of the band was a small compass. Taking a bearing to the tall building he had first noticed when he sat down, he committed it to memory. With his head up and looking directly at his destination, Sam began walking down the street with a careful, measured stride, avoiding eye contact with other pedestrians. His size and facial expression cleared his path for him, and he soon arrived at his goal. Sam turned and, again using the compass, shot a reciprocal bearing back to the steps. He was left maybe a degree at the most, not enough to worry about. His pace count placed the range at seven-hundred and twenty meters. Long, but not out of his range of skill.

  He looked up at the old building. A five-story structure of brick and stone, it had caught his eye due to the scaffolding erected across the front. The first three floors had been sandblasted already, and more scaffolding was stacked close by to be added soon in order to reach the last two. Mortar repairs had been made, and the windows had been replaced. The top floor had a debris chute emerging from a window and descending into a dumpster sitting on the sidewalk. A sign directed pedestrians to use the covered walkway in the parking lane. Workers now sat on the scaffolding eating their lunch. One nodded to Sam from two stories up, and he returned it before proceeding up the steps and into the building.

  No receptionist. He was instead greeted by a directory next to a phone, which listed the building occupants: two floors of lawyers; the third housed an investment office; and the top two were inhabited by a data systems management consulting firm. A word-perfect sign announced that the offices were currently vacant for remodeling and provided a temporary address and phone number. The sign also apologized for the inconvenience and thanked people for their patience.

  “Oh, no, thank you,” said Sam.

  He turned to the one elevator on his right and pushed the call-button. It arrived with a too-loud chime, and the doors opened to reveal an empty interior. He quickly punched 4 and the door-close button. When he reached the fourth floor, he was met by a copy of the sign below, only now stuck on the new drywall with blue masking tape. He could hear voices from both directions and smell fresh paint. Keeping the door open with one hand, he leaned out to gaze right and left. No one in sight. He looked for a sign indicating the stairs and saw it glowing through a piece of hanging plastic.

  Taking a chance, he left the elevator and proceeded to the exit. After helping the door close silently behind him, he ascended the stairs to the fifth floor. Listening at the door, he heard nothing at all. Opening the door, he saw only bare studs, hanging wires, and stacked drywall. Plastic sheeting flapped due to the breeze coming from the open windows. This floor was a few days away from the attention of the crew below. Sam resisted the urge to tour the floor based on the creaky floorboards and dusty conditions, so he withdrew to the stairwell. He descended the stairs to the ground floor.

  Here, he discovered two doors: one an interior door with opaque glass; the other a ste
el exit door, with a sign reading “Emergency Exit Only—Alarm Will Sound.” Sam pulled a small piece of sheet-magnet from his pocket. After a pause to listen for anyone approaching, he opened the exit door a few inches.

  Silence. With the construction going on and the windows removed, the alarm had been deactivated just as he had guessed. He peered out the small opening he had made to see a narrow alley that led off to the north. Traffic and pedestrians could be seen moving across the gap. He carefully placed the sheet-magnet over the metal plate that the latch fell into. He then shut the door. The magnet prevented the latch from catching. Sam pushed the door open and let it fall shut. The door had a good seal, and there was minimal wind in the alley. It should stay shut without the latch holding it. The door could be pulled open until someone removed the magnet. Perfect.

  He left the stairwell and entered the alley. With a casual walk, he paced the distance to his second choice of perches. His first choice looked very promising, but a careful sniper always had a contingency plan. As he walked and counted, he was already forming a shopping-list in his head.

  • • •

  The Home Depot, Paul’s favorite store, Sam remembered. He had spent every Christmas and birthday shopping here for his brother-in-law. Sam had to admit he enjoyed a trip there himself. It was a toy store for the adult American male, a place where the Tim Taylors of the world could indulge themselves. He walked with his cart out ahead of him, and nodded at the staff as he made his way across the concrete floor.

  He was sure he could quickly get everything on the list in his head. If Paul was here, he would have told him which aisle each item was in from memory. Sam wandered toward the lighting department. He needed to see if something would fit as he hoped, otherwise he’d have to come up with a new idea.

  In the lighting aisle, he discovered a large selection of fluorescent light bulbs. He found a package of eight that were just the right length for what he needed. They were in cardboard sleeves and shrink-wrapped with plastic. He carefully placed two cases in his cart. Now, with a game plan, Sam proceeded to acquire the remaining items on his mental list: a clipboard, a hard hat, black Magic Markers, a small stencil set, a pair of safety glasses, and a glass cutter. He chose a tool box from a large selection and tried on a carpenter’s apron. Two bottles of Super Glue, black spray paint, a pair of gloves, a hammer and screwdriver, a razor knife, tape measure, a suction cup, and several small bells, went into the cart. He topped off the list with the ultimate tool: a roll of duct tape.

  His next stop was a Wal-Mart. Here, he purchased a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a flannel work shirt. He then found a pair of work boots that fit. When he paid, he puzzled the girl at the checkout by asking for a roll of pennies.

  Back at his hotel room, Sam first pulled out the Super Glue. He had noticed that his last coat was flaking off. After removing the old coat from his fingers with a bottle of nail polish remover, he carefully applied a new coat. He then stepped out on the balcony for a few minutes to escape the fumes—they tended to set his stomach off. As he looked out over the city, he fought the urge to wave his hands like his wife used to do after she had applied nail polish. He always thought she looked silly.

  When the glue was dry, he pulled out his legal pad and taped his range card on the mirror next to the map of the downtown area. As he unpacked his purchases, he consulted the map and drawing, committing them to memory. He next pulled the rifles from under the bed.

  After some careful measuring, he made a series of marks on the bulbs. Taking them into the bathtub, he scored the glass with the cutter. With the safety glasses on, he broke the bulbs as gently as he could. Some shattered regardless of the scoring, but enough survived to accomplish his goal.

  With sixteen ends intact, Sam stacked them to fit the box they came in, and bound them with the duct tape. He carefully taped one set in the end of the box. He then dropped a hotel towel in and followed this with the rifle. Another towel, and he carefully slid the bulb ends into the box. Since the box did not come with a closed end, this was necessary.

  Sam hoisted the assembly to his shoulder and scrutinized himself in the mirror. Looked good. Even better with the bulb ends showing. Light bulbs were harmless and everyone knew what they looked like. If he encountered anyone entering the building, he should have no problems with his cover story.

  He packed the rest of the equipment he needed in the toolbox. The clothes he laid on the adjoining bed. He was ready. He turned on the TV to catch the local news.

  The third story was the Ping trial. Sam was treated to some previous footage of Ping arriving at the courthouse. He watched him emerge from the Sheriff’s Department car with an officer on each side. Ping was in handcuffs and wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. Sam knew he was allowed to change into his suit and tie after arriving for his court appearance. He looked bulky—obviously wearing a bullet-proof vest. A protester temporarily blocked the camera with a sign. A moderate-sized crowd could be expected every day Ping was on trial. Sam watched intently as Ping walked up the steps with an officer on both sides and into the courthouse. He turned to look back at the crowd, and the picture froze on his face.

  Sam made quick notes on a few things he had seen. He looked back at the screen and caught Ping’s face one more time before the story changed.

  The glasses were new—big lenses with thick black frames.

  • • •

  At 6 a.m., the day was started at the county prison where Leonard Ping currently resided.

  “Time to go, Leonard.”

  Officer Leo Lehman stood outside the cell and watched him take his time putting his shoes on. Leo was a fifty-year-old veteran of the police force, and was spending his last days before retirement at the jail. His wife had tried hard to convince him that it was safer than the streets. He had tried to tell her that her view was wrong—it was the other way around. But Leo had been shot at three times, so no amount of talking could convince her otherwise. He had finally given in. Now he spent his days shuttling this scumbag back and forth to court, a fine way to spend his last two years. The fact that they shared a name just made it worse.

  Ping ignored the officer and took his time, first tying his shoes and then shuffling through some papers. Anything to delay the inevitable. Leo watched this act as he had several times, finally tapping his cuffs on the bars to move Ping along. Ping obediently stuck his hands through the opening, and Leo snapped the cuffs in place. Ping said nothing as his cell opened after a yell from Leo, and he stepped out into the corridor. As Leo walked him toward the exit, Ping’s fellow inmates could not resist some catcalls.

  “Hey-Hey Leonard, another day closer, huh?”

  “Ping-Pong! Give ’em hell, boy.”

  “Don’t share needles, Ping; you might get AIDS!”

  “The big sleep’s coming your way, pudgy. You better be digging another tunnel!”

  Leo watched Ping shuffle down the block with his eyes on the floor. He knew the taunting bothered Ping. No matter how many times he’d walked the block, he would see Ping tense as he passed the other cells. Soon, the sweat stains would show. Leo took great satisfaction in this.

  All his years in law enforcement had given Leo a remarkable ability to read people. He was one of the few who saw both versions of Leonard Ping. He saw the public version, an act which gave Ping the aura of a small, harmless man driven by inner demons. A flawed man who needed professional help—not the death penalty. In the courtroom, he claimed to have no recollection of his deeds, even when shown video tapes of him with the victims. He stared off into space at the hearings, and made people repeat their questions to get his attention. He often mumbled his answers and talked to himself when the cameras were on. It was hard work being the public Leonard Ping.

  Leo knew the truth. He got to see the real Leonard Ping, the same as the other inmates. Leonard was scared, afraid of death, and willing to do anything to avoid it. It was the only thing on his mind every waking moment. Ping studied hard in the prison library, and
had used every legal tactic he could to buy himself more time. He had managed to delay his trial date repeatedly, but he was now running out of loopholes, and this made the fear manifest itself tenfold.

  Even now, Leo could see his mind racing, looking for another way to keep death from being scheduled. For a man who had visited death on twelve people, Ping was now living the nightmare they had endured. The satisfaction Leo felt from knowing this was the only thing that made the job bearable.

  They paused in the holding cell, and Ping’s legs were placed in irons before his wrists were freed to allow the donning of the vest. The orange jumpsuit was then pulled back up, and the handcuffs reapplied. Ping would now sit for around an hour until it was time to leave for the courthouse. Leo pulled the bars shut with a loud clang that startled Ping. Leo smiled as he left the man alone with his fear.

  • • •

  While Leonard Ping contemplated his fate in the holding cell, Sam walked down the street with his package over one shoulder, and the toolbox in the other hand. After watching the broadcast with Ping’s face last night, he had continued his preparations. On his head he wore the hard hat that now read Supervisor across the front and sported a few scrapes and dents to simulate past use. The tool belt was in place and rubbing uncomfortably against his hips. The boots were likewise assaulting his feet, but he’d had no time to break them in. He had spent some time last night scuffing them in the hotel parking lot, and they now looked like they were part of the rest of the outfit. The shirt had been wadded up in a ball all night and was now adequately rumpled. As he neared the building, he slowed to check the scaffolding for workers. None were apparent at this early hour. Sam approached the front door, as a young man in a suit and tie exited the protective walkway. They arrived at the door together.