“I hate to do this, young lady, but there is one name that comes up.”
“Yes sir,” said the agent.
“Carl Hitchcock.”
The young woman had no idea who that would be. She had no response.
“The name familiar?”
“No sir, can’t say it is.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Okay, then. For a time, Carl Hitchcock was the most famous sniper in America. Someone wrote a book about him on account of all the kills he got in Vietnam. Marine sniper, you know, in the boonies, hunting bad guys one at a time.”
“Yes sir,” said the investigator, writing the name down.
“He was known as the leading sniper with something like ninety-three or -four kills. He had magazine articles written about him, he had a book published, and for years he went around to gun shows and sold autographs, just like an old baseball player. There was talk of a movie, and a lot of smaller products, you know, an authorized poster, a special brand of ammo, some rifles that bore his name. Carl got a little action off each one.”
“He’s now in your area?”
“He retired down here in Jacksonville, like a lot of old marines do. It’s right outside Lejeune. He had a little house here. He liked to garden. His wife died a year or two back. But his health hasn’t been too good lately.”
“How do you know him?”
“He had a consulting business where he’d drop by and do some informal training days for police departments on their shooting programs. He helped our boys and was an exceptional coach. He made everyone shoot better and, more important, think better. He’d put a lot into snipercraft. He even had a license plate that read SNIPR-1.”
He spelled it out for the young woman.
“And something’s going on with him?”
“Well, it gets dicey here. This is why I’m reluctant to share. But yeah, something. Something. Don’t know what. Carl’s not the sort of man who talks a lot about how he feels. He prides himself on not feeling a thing. But I could tell. His voice was dead on the phone. He canceled his visits. Just something and it depressed the hell out of him. Classical. Maybe just old age, the realization there were a lot more leaves on the ground than on the tree. It hits different people different ways. I don’t know.”
“So when was the last time you saw Carl Hitchcock?”
“A month ago. I’m just talking a feeling. Seemed lonely, I suppose.”
“Was he infirm?”
“He wasn’t able to play basketball, no, but for a gent close to seventy, he was spry enough. Walked with a limp, had pain from some burns, that sort of thing, but he got around all right.”
“Do you have an address?”
“Well, let me look it up for you. Would you want me to—”
“No sir,” said the young woman, who knew that a local gumshoe suddenly asking questions might be just what the doctor didn’t order. “I’m going to run this by my superiors and we will be back in touch soonest.”
“Ma’am, I hear that all the time when I work with feds, and ‘soonest’ is shorthand for ‘neverest.’ ”
“I apologize for that, sir, but I do mean ‘soonest’ this time.”
The young woman, excited, raced in to see the legendary Nick, who waved her into a chair while he finished a call.
And the young woman heard him say, “You spell that H-I-T-C-H-C-O-C-K, just like the director?”
Source number two was the police department of Hendrix, Arizona, whose chief Nick had just been on the phone with. The chief had said the following:
“This old gal sat in our lobby for six hours and I will say she got the runaround. But finally a detective came by to take her complaint and it turned out that her sister was a former beauty queen named Mavis O’Neill Hitchcock, of Jacksonville, North Carolina, which is a town just outside the big marine base at Camp Lejeune. Mavis died, but her husband was a combat-injured retiree named Carl Hitchcock, who had been famous for a while as the marines’ number one sniper in Vietnam. It was a good marriage. Both were old dogs, both had been around the block, and Mavis’s first husband, Howard, had also been a marine sergeant, and he and Carl had been friends. Anyhow, for a long time Carl was a kind of a god to the marines and to lots of law-enforcement officers and the like. It was a life he liked very much and he enjoyed talking to the young snipers and so forth. But about the time Mavis took sick, something went sour. Belly-up. Don’t know what. Now, the sister went out to Jacksonville as Mavis’s condition worsened, and she could tell that something wasn’t right with Carl. ‘Carl, what’s wrong?’ Carl wouldn’t say a word. Wasn’t a talking type; all the lonely time he spent in Vietnam probably cured him of a need to talk. He tells her he was the champion. But now it turns out he wasn’t the champion. There was another fellow, a few years earlier, killed more bad guys. ‘Why would you let a thing like that upset you?’ ‘I feel like I’ve been living a lie,’ Carl said. Anyhow, Mavis dies, Carl is all broken up, and the sister has to go back to Hendrix and her own life, but she tries to keep in touch. Several times she calls, he’s too drunk to talk. Sometimes he himself calls, drunk. One day he breaks a hip and that takes a hell of a lot out of him. Then he just stopped answering the phone. Now this, and she wonders, could Carl . . . It’s not like Carl . . . Carl was such a good, brave man, such a wonderful marine . . . but could Carl?”
“All right,” Nick told them at the meeting he convened in about thirty seconds, “I don’t want to commit to Carl Hitchcock, but we have to get more. I’ve been on the phone with the federal attorney for North Carolina and he’s putting together a search warrant. I want our best team on this. Ron Fields will run the show, and Ron, you know what I expect. This is a tough situation, you don’t want to brown off the locals with overzealous supervision, the marines are going to be very interested because he’s very much a symbol of their branch, one of their heroes, but I’ve also got Joan Flanders’s ex-husband T. T. Constable calling the director and demanding action, sometimes twice a day. Ron, you’re up for this?”
“I am.”
“Take the young woman here with you. She did good. What was your name, young lady?”
“Jean Chandler.”
“Take Special Agent Chandler, Ron. Run her hard, treat her unfairly, call her by her last name, overwork her, don’t let her call her husband—”
“No husband,” Chandler said, blankly.
“—boyfriend, who’s probably a linebacker for the Redskins, and see if she comes up smiling. Maybe she’s a keeper, maybe not. We’ll see.”
Chandler smiled; Nick was famous for his needling, joshing style with the younger people.
Nick said, “You make sure—I know you know this, but they pay me to point out the obvious—you make sure the legal paperwork is perfect before you move; you don’t ransack; you show utmost respect to this old duffer if he’s around; you document everything, okay? Is this understood?”
“Yes, Nick.”
“And you understand this one other thing: if, God forbid, he’s the boy and if it gets dicey, you back off quick and look contrite. I know you’re a gunfighter yourself, but you cannot engage Carl Hitchcock. Under no circumstances are you to engage Carl Hitchcock. If you want to see a lot of people dead in a hurry, you corner a former marine sniper with a rifle and a bagful of ammo with no way out, and I guarantee you, you’ll have body bags all the way out to the trees and back in the first two minutes. And the survivors will never get a promotion.”
They laughed, nervously.
“And you keep me in the loop and everybody else out of the loop. Everything goes through me, because I get paid to be the asshole. You let me be the asshole. If you do that, I’ll fight to death for you. If you don’t, I’ll dump you and hang a do-not-promote-this-fool toe tag on your career. I will not be asked questions by the press I don’t know the answer to. Okay, go, go, go. What, you’re not out of here yet?”
3
The house was a one-story br
ick job under palms and pines in a leafy neighborhood full mostly of young marine noncom families. Jacksonville, it turned out, was one of those parasite towns that grew up on the outskirts of a large military installation, this time Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, the home of and training site for II Marine Expeditionary Force, the Second Marine Division, the 22nd, 23rd, and 24th Marine Expeditionary Units as well as the USMC infantry and engineering schools. The town was full of small retail for young marines—dry cleaners, tailors, shoe repair places, fast food—and of course a seamier array of afterduty amusements, mostly beer and strippers, as well as a bus station, a train station, and a surprisingly well developed taxi system, which ferried the boys and girls to and from duty and recreation if they were not advanced enough in their careers to afford autos.
Ron Fields and Jean Chandler met early that afternoon with the federal prosecutor for Shelby County, a USMC JAG staff rep, the local police chief, and a captain in the North Carolina State Police. Fields had a lot of explaining to do.
“I’m really a nice guy,” Ron said, “and people love me. But I’m going to big-foot it now to save time and let you decide how wonderful I am six months from now. Sorry if I come on like a jerk, but that’s the way it has to be. Jack,” he said to the prosecutor, sliding into first-name familiarity, “I’m going to fax your office’s legal work to DC for vetting by guys who went to Harvard. I don’t think they’re smarter, I just have to be sure.”
“Of course,” said Jack, “I only went to UNC, what do I know?”
“We have forensics and evidence recovery teams and SWAT people on standby. But we cannot approach this by kicking in doors. We go gentle. Slow and gentle. I want you, Major Connough,”—the Marine Corps JAG rep—“to witness and sign off on all my decisions, and you tell me any time I act with disrespect; I don’t want the Marine Corps mad at me.”
“The Marine Corps is already mad. This guy is an institution. He’s a god, a hero. If it turns out—well, it won’t. Everyone who knows Carl Hitchcock says it won’t.”
Ron didn’t like the sound of that. It was already out. That’s the thing with these service cultures, he thought. They’re hardwired for commo and something can’t happen here without everyone knowing it in five seconds.
“I hope he’s clean too. Makes my job easier. Okay, no police presence up front. I want it gathered at the school two blocks away; your SWAT people, your traffic control, your medical standby, your press liaison, whatever. How fast can you assemble?”
“We can have people in place by four p.m.”
“Good, I’m hoping to get a yes from DC and that you can get to a nice friendly judge by then, all right?”
“We can work that time frame. The warrant’s already at Judge O’Brian’s. He’ll sign. He always has before.”
“Good move, Chief, that saves some time. Now at three, Chief, I want your people to begin a discreet evac of the neighborhood. Friendly cop style, ma’am, we’re making a potentially dangerous arrest, and we’d like you to quietly gather your kids up and head over to the school, that kind of thing. These are marine people, they’ll follow orders.”
“Is that necessary?” asked the marine JAG rep. “Carl’s nearly seventy. He’s not going to go to guns.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Major Connough. But I can’t take the risk. We cannot have civilian casualties. Furthermore, every public safety professional who has the potential of going in line of sight to the house will wear, I say again, will wear body armor.”
“Won’t stop a .308,” said the marine.
“No, but it could deflect and we’ve found that the armor increases efficiency and confidence as well as survivability in critical incidents.”
“We do have some critical incident experience in the Marine Corps,” said the major. “Ever hear of Iwo Jima?”
“Yes sir, I meant no disrespect, I’m just covering all the bases in my dull, straight-ahead fashion. In the meantime, I’m going to take a cab ride over and just pass by the house a couple of times.”
So next, while the various authorities moved their teams into place, Ron and Jean Chandler glided along Peacock Lane for the third time, with a Jacksonville cop in civies over body armor behind the wheel. The feds played elementary security games, maybe overkill, but coming from a second-guess culture bar none, they took no chances: first time they were in coat and tie and a formal blouse, the second in polo shirts and glasses under ball caps, and this time they had switched sunglasses and ball caps.
Each time, they’d seen nothing, though as they worked it, only one of them, in the off side, actually observed the house. The closer agent sat still, eyes dead ahead, utterly uninterested; it was his partner, leaning back just a bit, head cocked just a bit, who scanned for intelligence.
“Give me your read,” said Ron.
“Nothing,” she said. “It looks empty. The grass is trim, though it’s been a while since the last cutting. The garden has been weeded, the lawn watered, nothing is lying around. It just looks dead. No sign of habitation, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing spontaneous or unexplainable, just the house of a neat older retiree who lives alone but is still spry enough to do his gardening. He’s been gone a week, maybe two, but there’s no sign of decay or instability. It’ll run down in time, but not yet. It’s still neat as a button. The car looks dusty but the dust covers a clean vehicle. It’s been washed but not driven and it’s sat for a week.” That was Carl’s Chrysler 300 with the North Carolina rear plate SNIPR-1.
Chandler’s assessment did not deviate from Ron’s; in fact, it confirmed Ron’s in every detail.
Finally, at 4:09 p.m., Ron got the call he had been waiting for from Nick.
“All right, Ron, Justice has signed off on the legal and the judge down there has okayed the warrant. You can go. You get back to me soonest.”
“Roger,” he said, and turned to the gathering of officers. “It’s a go. Agent Chandler and I will approach. I will have my mike open. Any sounds of shots or scuffles, you guys get there fast.”
Nods all around.
“Okay, cowboy up.”
The SWAT people climbed into their armored vehicles and turned the engines on. Ron and Jean put on body armor, then their coats. They hung their IDs on their chests by a chain necklace. A last quick checkoff with the district attorney, the federal attorney, the police executives, the medical people, and so on made it clear that the moment was indeed here.
The two agents got into the black sedan, drove two blocks, and pulled into Carl Hitchcock’s driveway.
Discreetly, the SWAT teams, locked and loaded, moved to holding points just out of line of sight of the house. All earphones were open to the same channel.
Ron and Jean exited the vehicle, took a look around, then Ron led the way to the front door. Both agents had unsnapped the safety strap on the holsters of their Glock .40s, which they now carried hot. Ron knocked, waited, knocked again, to no answer.
They edged their way around to each door, knocking. They peered through windows and saw nothing. Finally, circumnavigating the house and narrating their progress over the radio, they again reached the front door. Ron pushed it; it popped open, unlocked.
“Sergeant Hitchcock,” he yelled. “My name is Ronald C. Fields, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am here to serve a search warrant and to take you in for questioning. I have a marine JAG officer nearby if you wish to talk to him first. Please come out with hands raised. This is not an arrest; it’s an interview and search. You will have ample time to acquire legal representation if necessary.”
There was silence.
Finally Ron said, “Okay, we’re going in.” He withdrew his Glock. “Muzzle down. You do not fire unless you absolutely positively see a weapon or are physically assaulted, do you understand, Chandler?”
“Got it,” said Chandler.
“You do not shoot Special Agent Fields in the ass, no matter how big a jerk he is, all right?”
“Ten-four that,” said Chandler.
They entered, stepping into a living room.
It took a second to adjust to the darkness.
“Sergeant Hitchcock, FBI, please identify yourself.”
Silence.
The living room was dominated by a wall of glory narrating a marine career, pictures from Lejeune and Pendleton and half the ships at sea, Rome, Paris, the war in Vietnam, a batch of magazine covers and a book cover all rendered into picture frames, medals in an oak display case, trophies boasting little golden shooters, all of it neat, all of it framed, all of it speaking of a man proud of his accomplishments and in control of his faculties.
They moved onward, Ron advancing, Jean covering, down the hall through a laundry room to a small but neat kitchen. Beyond was a bedroom, bed made, sheet tight as per barracks style (you could bounce a dime off the covers), nothing flung or discarded.
Finally there was only a last bedroom, closed.
In fact, locked from the outside, with a padlock screwed between door and frame.
“Kick it in,” said Ron. “We’ll pay for it later.”
Jean Chandler gave it a kick and her foot bounced off.
“More time in the gym for Agent Jeannie,” said Fields, with a snort.
“I can do it,” Jean said, this time setting herself more correctly, aiming higher to bring more stress on the joinery of the screws to the wood of door and frame. She kicked, the door flew open, and they stepped in.
“Jesus Christ,” said Ron.
4
A few hours later, in the press briefing auditorium of the FBI headquarters building in Washington DC, Nick stepped to the podium, almost blinded by the lights. He could sense the seething crowd in the darkness. He went to the lectern, cleared his voice, tested the microphone. Then he stood by to be introduced by Phil Price, the Bureau’s public affairs officer, as “Nick Memphis, Special Agent in Charge of Task Force Sniper, with, as we said, important new information.”
Nick leaned to the microphone.
“Thank you all for coming. Are we ready? Jimmy, hand out the circulars and the release; make sure everyone gets one. All right, as Phil said, I have information. I am here to announce that we have just obtained an arrest warrant in the deaths of Joan Flanders, Mitch Greene, Jack Strong, and Mitzi Reilly.”
I, Sniper Page 3