[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  Sam jumped up on the hood and pulled the cover off the opener. The bulb was quickly broken using the remote, and Sam received a shower of glass for his trouble. He jumped clear of the hood and glass. Standing on the passenger side, he shook the glass off as best he could. A cut would leave blood, and that was something he had no intention of leaving behind. Sam then walked to the garage door and slid the lock over. If someone hit the button, the door would try to open, but stop when the resistance was noted. The noise would warn him. With that done, he listened for a moment before moving to the car and extracting his bag.

  He donned the coveralls before entering the house and searching every room. Sam doubted he’d find anyone, but he hadn’t gotten this far by being sloppy. Satisfied he was alone, he returned to the bag and unloaded the contents onto the floor. After a quick sort, he moved to the fireplace. The builder or realtor had actually placed some logs in it in case prospective buyers didn’t know what it was. He rearranged them and added some newspaper. The flue was opened, and Sam eyeballed the arrangement carefully before returning to the living area. He only had a few minutes left before the sun came up and he needed to be ready before that.

  The dowels were arranged into the tripod with the help of the duct tape and other items were placed in position. Sam took a leak in the bathroom sink and dead-bolted the front door before settling in on the floor. He was soon treated to a Florida sunrise. The traffic noise from nearby I-75 could be heard in the distance. He was still enjoying the sunrise when some movement caught his eye. A golf ball bounced to a halt on the fairway in front of him.

  It was time to work.

  • • •

  Sydney hadn’t bothered going home. The flight had been long and uneventful. At least Jack had kept his promise, and everyone had slept as best they could on the plane. They had gone their separate ways at Andrews, and while most had family at home, Sydney had made the shorter drive to the office, where she fell on the couch in the dungeon for some sleep.

  She now lay rubbing the crick in her neck acquired from sleeping in a chair at forty thousand feet. The leather couch was so comfortable it sucked her in, and the old army poncho liner she had liberated a few years back was the perfect blanket. She vowed not to get up until she was forced to.

  Eventually, the lack of sunlight and her own curiosity was enough for her to snake an arm out and check her watch. 10:10 a.m. She was amazed her phone hadn’t rung yet. Kicking off the liner, she swung her feet to the cold floor, and was running a hand through her Medusa-like tangle of hair when her cell phone rang.

  “Damn it.” She scowled at the offending device. It rang back at her. She stood and pranced across the cold floor in her socks and snatched it up.

  “Lewis.”

  “Morning, Syd,” Jack answered. “Hope you got some sleep. I’m calling everyone in at noon. Wanted to make sure you were up.”

  “I am now.” She let a little irritation get through.

  “Sorry. Get some caffeine in you, and get rolling. I’ve already talked with the Director, and he wants updates by this afternoon. How long till you can be in?”

  “I’m already in.”

  “That’s my girl. You sleep in the office last night?”

  “Yes.” She stood on one foot to escape the cold floor.

  “Well, then grab a shower and come up to my office; I’ll get us some breakfast. Half hour?”

  “Hour.” Her tone left no room for argument.

  “Deal.” He laughed and hung up.

  Sydney cradled the receiver and pranced back to the couch. How Jack could operate on such little sleep was beyond her. She had asked him about it once. He had simply shrugged and said “training”—whatever that meant. He had mentioned staying up for days at a time while in the army. He also had the ability to fall sleep within a few seconds. She had watched him settle in, take one deep breath and be out, then wake up later like nothing happened. She had tried it on numerous occasions with no luck. Sometimes, he really irritated her.

  She looked around the room for her gym bag. She needed to restock her clothing supply at work. It was getting low. She pulled out a set of shorts and a T-shirt. A smell check pronounced them okay for one more use. She only knew one way to wake up and beat the jet lag. A few miles, followed by a long shower. She might be late, but she knew she would get more done if she showed up ready. Jack would just have to forgive her. She found her keys in the pile on the desk. The hair got a few looks on her way to the gym.

  • • •

  Jack had them in the large conference room with all the reports, photos, and other information spread out on the tables. Everyone looked a little ragged, but all were showered and reasonably awake. Larry had made the decision to keep the beard he had started going, despite a few gray hairs. Sydney had managed to find some decent, if somewhat casual, clothes in her dungeon closet. Otherwise, they were all back to normal.

  “Okay, everyone, please listen up.” Jack rose and addressed the room. Several analysts and people from Behavioral Science had joined them. “I’ve had a conversation with the Director this morning. He’s not happy and is receiving a lot of heat from the Attorney General on this case, and I can’t say I blame him. Example.” Jack held up several newspapers one by one. All had large headlines addressing the sniper shooting. “Personally, I have my own views of the press when it comes to investigations, but after a lot of thought I’ve decided to make a few changes. We will no longer be going into the field and chasing every shooting personally. The field offices will handle all forensics and report to us. The focus of the people in this room will be on forecasting when and where his next target will be. Trips will be made if deemed necessary by myself or the Director. I want you to get in this guy’s head and give me some ideas on where he’s going. So, let’s start from the top.” Jack took off his coat and draped it on the chair before turning to the wall and retracting the projection screen up into its holder, revealing a large dry-erase board. He picked up a marker and turned to the room.

  “Well?”

  The room was silent, until a voice from the back of the room spoke quietly. They all turned to see Dr. Wong stand. A small man and soft-spoken, he had been with the FBI for many years, and led one of the behavioral science teams.

  “I think we need to look at the why before you can project where he—or they—is going next,” he offered. “What was it that set this all in motion?” he offered.

  “Good!” Jack turned and wrote “Why” in big letters on the board. “Keep going.”

  “I’m proceeding on the assumption that this is one man. He’s very angry about something. We think he’s been involved in some way with the judicial system, and feels he was not treated fairly. By the wording of the letter, his goal is to force the government to change the laws and adopt a harsher, less criminal-friendly system. He also wishes the public to take a stance against crime. His methods suggest he means to do this by way of high profile murders of very public people, who in his eyes have gotten away with serious crimes in the past, or in the lawyer’s case, assisted in those cases.

  “But I caution you to not see him merely as a vigilante. As far as we know, to this point the shootings have not been personal in nature. The victims have no connection to one another, do they? No, he is approaching this in a very deliberate manner. The preparations to carry these shootings out have been made well in advance. This has been given much thought by a very capable mind. He has resources, and the ability to travel without suspicion. He also has skills. Skills that I’ve learned from speaking with Mr. Randall, are superior in nature. That is one avenue of approach I suggest you concentrate on.

  “The other would be to identify his potential victims. Who is going to give him the most press coverage and draw attention to his cause? That is the question you need to ask yourself today.”

  The room fell silent as Mr. Wong quietly took his seat.

  Jack spun on his heel and wrote “Who” on the board opposite the “Why.” “Throw some n
ames out there, people. Let’s hear it.”

  Larry spoke first. “TJ Olson comes to mind. It’s been a few years, but I can’t think of a better example.”

  “How about that woman who drowned her six kids in the tub?” Sydney offered. “She’s being re-tried right now.”

  “The Menendez boys in California?” Dave added.

  “They’re both in jail for murder,” Jack said. “We’re looking for ones who got away with it through the system. I don’t think the woman fits the bill, either.”

  “Any of the Mafia types,” one of the analysts spoke up.

  “Big gang leaders?” another added.

  “Drug kingpins.”

  “Corporate criminals? Like the Enron guys?”

  Jack wrote as fast as he could. The ideas were coming faster as they wrapped their brains around the subject. Soon, the ideas slowed, but the room was buzzing with conversation as they all explored the new possibilities. Jack added another name every few minutes and smiled at the activity. This was what was going to solve this case. He capped the pen and placed it back on the board. He turned to find Dr. Wong approaching.

  “Thank you for your time today, Doc.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Randall.” It was never first names with Dr. Wong. “My people and I are glad to help. I am available at any time, should you need me,” he trailed off.

  “But you have something else to add?” Jack asked.

  “I wish you to not discount the personal end of the theory I proposed. This man is very determined, no doubt, but the cause may still be a personal one. Perhaps the reason has already been addressed, and now we are seeing the aftermath of that decision. There are still many questions. I look forward to meeting this man when you catch him.”

  “Let’s hope that will be soon.”

  Dr. Wong merely nodded before retreating to join one of the conversations at the tables. Jack found himself staring at the board. One side covered in names and titles, the other still holding one word.

  WHY?

  The state of Nebraska holds 4,040 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 2,706 are repeat offenders.

  —TWENTY-SEVEN—

  It was without a doubt the nicest sniper position Sam had ever had. The carpeting was soft under his elbows. The air conditioner was set at a comfortable setting. The tinted windows kept the glare out of his eyes and the scope, and hid his movements from anyone outside. The view was elevated, unobstructed, and quite pleasant. The only thing Sam needed was a spotter to share the duty and watch his back. One could only ask for so much, he decided.

  He trained his eye on the tee as another group approached. All gray hair. The majority of the groups so far were in the senior category, and few drives reached Sam’s position on the fairway. Some had passed close enough that he was able to hear their conversation. He scanned the homes surrounding the course. Several were in the construction phase and came with the usual construction noise. Swimming pools were in use, and children could be heard occasionally when the wind shifted. Another reason for his choice was that one could not see the street from the backyards. The view was blocked by the closely built homes and the landscaping. Sam counted on it to aid in his departure. The Cadillac certainly fit in here, and as long as no one noticed his exit from the garage, he should be fine.

  This group had all white faces, so Sam returned to scanning the area. His non-dominant eye caught the movement of the balls bouncing down the fairway, and he was surprised to see them all land out of the rough. The quality of the course had not been matched by the players yet today. Sam moved the scope to see them as they approached in their carts. Two were golden brown, while the others were white with a pink tinge—Floridians with company from up north. He watched as the host placed a nice iron onto the green a few feet from the flag. The others attempted to emulate, but came up left and right. A round of good-natured comments was shared before they set off for the green.

  Sam was just leaving the trailing cart when his eyes caught the movement of a golf ball bouncing down the centerline of the fairway. He swung the scope around to see the man still in his follow-thru watching the ball. His skin was dark. Sam quickly surveyed the rest of the group. Another black man and what looked like a father-son team. The second black man had the familiar face of TJ Olson.

  Sam moved the cross-hairs to rest on his chest, but was defeated a moment later by the son standing in front of him. Sam cussed the son, but he stood still while his father teed off. Only then did TJ move to the tee. Sam was forced to squirm to his left a few inches to regain his sight picture. TJ liked the far end of the tee, and Sam had only cracked the sliding glass door a few inches to prevent anyone noticing. He once again found himself defeated by the group, as the father now stood directly behind TJ in Sam’s sight picture. The rifle was powerful at this range, and the bullet would travel through the target and beyond. Sam had no wish to kill or injure the man just for winning a contest.

  “Move, damn it!” Sam cursed. The man stood politely still.

  Sam raised his head and looked for other options. The carts caught his eye. He returned to the scope, and a quick scan showed an unobstructed view of both carts with no chance of secondary injuries. But which cart? He opened his non-dominant eye and watched the foursome move toward the cart path. TJ stopped at the rear cart to load his driver before sitting in the passenger seat. Sam waited until the others had deposited their clubs and boarded the carts. A left and right rock of the cart announced the presence of TJ’s driver.

  The sound of the shot was deafening, despite the vaulted ceilings.

  • • •

  The contest winner and his son were enjoying the day so far. The father was not a huge fan of TJ, but had allowed his son to put their name in the box at the card show. Their host had been gracious enough to make it a foursome at his cost, so Ben had given in to his son’s pleading. He was now glad that they had. His wife and daughter had gone shopping, while they were treated to a late breakfast with the baseball legend.

  The sound was something Ben had not heard in some time—a bumble bee at high speed. His mind was still chewing on the answer when the sound of the rifle reached him. He immediately turned the cart off the path and shoved his teenage son off his seat and onto the ground. He landed on top of the boy and pinned him with his now considerable weight. The cart was between him and the sound of the rifle. It had been a long time since Desert Storm, and the reflexes were a little slow.

  “Stay down!” he told his son as he struggled to rise.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know yet. Just stay down.”

  Ben craned his head around to look at the other cart. He could make out two people. One lying face down—TJ’s brother. They had just met this morning. He was on his belly and looking toward him with wild eyes. Looking past him, he saw TJ lying on his back, hidden from view from the chest up. Ben looked at TJ’s belly and saw no movement. The man was dead. Ben knew about wounded soldiers. If they were alive they rolled onto their stomachs. It was a natural reaction to hug the ground. If mortally wounded, they curled into the fetal position or flopped on their backs. He watched for any movement, but he saw none. A glance at the cart showed a bloodstain surrounding a hole in the middle of the backrest where TJ had been sitting.

  “What’s going on?”

  Ben turned to see an elderly man overlooking the scene from his yard a few yards away, standing in the open without a clue.

  “Call 911. Someone’s been shot.”

  Deciding it was over, Ben rose and walked the few yards to the cart and peered around it. TJ looked up at him from the ground. His face registered a look of surprise. A large hole was in the center of his chest and his hand still grasped his golf club. Ben was forced to step back as the blood made its way toward his shoes. There was no need to check for a pulse.

  “Dad?”

  He turned to see his son standing by the cart.

  “Come on, son. Let’s go for a walk.”

&
nbsp; He pulled the confused boy around by the shoulder and led him off to the elderly man’s house. TJ’s brother still lay in the grass.

  • • •

  Sam took one long look to make sure his shot had hit its mark. He zeroed in on the feet and then the cart. Satisfied, he pushed himself to his feet and strode to the fireplace. Placing the rifle with the butt on the floor and the barrel against the brick wall, he stomped it with both feet repeatedly until the stock cracked and the barrel showed a slight curve. Gathering it up, he then fed the barrel up into the fireplace, wedging the butt in the logs. Picking up the gas can, he doused the whole mess till it was soaked. Only then did he remove the coveralls and add them to the fire. Feeling his pocket for the keys, he then pulled out a lighter and set the paper ablaze. The room was quickly filled with smoke as there was no draft to suck the flames up the chimney. Sam didn’t care; it was to his advantage that the smoke wouldn’t show for a few minutes.

  He scanned the room for anything he may have missed and left for the garage. Remembering to unlock the door first, he waited until he was in the car with the tinted windows up before thumbing the remote. The door opened behind him, and he casually pulled backed out onto the street. There were a few people out on the sidewalks, but no one was looking hard or pointing in his direction. He placed the car in gear and headed for the gate. As he took the first turn, he glanced back in the direction of the house and saw a fair amount of smoke showing already.