Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Bodies sure do bleed a lot,” Douglas observed. It wasn’t a statement of any significance, just words to fill the silence as the cameras flashed for one last roll of color film. It looked as if two full-size cans of red paint had been poured in one spot.

  “Time of death?” Ryan asked the representative from the coroner’s office.

  “Not too long ago,” the man said, lifting one hand. “No rigor yet. After midnight certainly, probably after two.”

  The cause of death didn’t require a question. The holes in both men’s foreheads answered that.

  “Monroe?” Ryan called. The young officer came over. “What do you know about these two?”

  “Both pushers. Older one on the right there is Maceo Donald, street name is Ju-Ju. The one on the left, I don’t know, but he worked with Donald.”

  “Good eye spotting them, patrolman. Anything else?” Sergeant Douglas asked.

  Monroe shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing at all. Pretty quiet night in the district, as a matter of fact. I came through this area maybe four times on my shift, and I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The usual pushers doing the usual business.” The implied criticism of the situation that everyone had to acknowledge as normal went unanswered. It was a Monday morning, after all, and that was bad enough for anyone.

  “Finished,” the senior photographer said. He and his partner, on the other side of the bodies, got out of the way.

  Ryan was already looking around. There was a good deal of ambient light in the passageway, and the detective augmented that with a large flashlight, playing its beam over the edges of the walkway, his eyes looking for a coppery reflection.

  “See any shell casing, Tom?” he asked Douglas, who was doing the same thing.

  “Nope. They were shot from this direction, too, don’t you think?”

  “Bodies haven’t been moved,” the coroner said unnecessarily, adding, “Yes, definitely both shot from this side. Both were lying down when they were shot.”

  Douglas and Ryan took their time, examining every inch of the passageway three times, for thoroughness was their main professional weapon, and they had all the time in the world—or at least a few hours, which amounted to the same thing. A crime scene like this was one you prayed for. No grass to conceal evidence, no furniture, just a bare brick corridor not five feet wide, everything self-contained. That would be a time-saver.

  “Nothing at all, Em,” Douglas said, finishing his third sweep. “Probably a revolver, then.” It was a logical observation. Light .22 shell casings, ejected from an automatic, could fly incredible distances, and were so small that finding them could drive one to distraction. Rare was the criminal who recovered his brass, and to have recovered four little .22s in the dark—no. that wasn’t very likely.

  “Some robber with a cheap one, want to bet?” Douglas asked.

  “Could be.” Both men approached the bodies and squatted down close to them for the first time.

  “No obvious powder marks,” the sergeant said in some surprise.

  “Any of these houses occupied?” Ryan asked Monroe.

  “Not either one of these, sir,” Monroe said, indicating both of those bordering the passageway. “Most of the ones on the other side of the street are, though.”

  “Four shots, early in the morning, you figure somebody might have heard?” The brick tunnel ought to have focused the sound like the lens of a telescope, Ryan thought, and the .22 had a loud, sharp bark. But how often had there been cases just like this one in which no one had heard a thing? Besides, the way this neighborhood was going, people divided into two classes: those who didn’t look because they didn’t care, and those who knew that looking merely increased the chance of catching a stray round.

  “There’s two officers knocking on doors now, Lieutenant. Nothing yet.”

  “Not bad shooting, Em.” Douglas had his pencil out, pointing to the holes in the forehead of the unidentified victim. They were scarcely half an inch apart, just above the bridge of the nose. “No powder marks. The killer must have been standing . . . call it three, four feet, max.” Douglas stood back at the feet of the bodies and extended his arm. It was a natural shot, extending your arm and aiming down.

  “I don’t think so. Maybe there’s powder marks we can’t see, Tom. That’s why we have medical examiners.” He meant that both men had dark complexions, and the light wasn’t all that good. But if there was powder tattooing around the small entrance wounds, neither detective could see it. Douglas squatted back down to give the entrance wounds another look.

  “Nice to know somebody appreciates us,” the coroner’s representative said, ten feet away, scribbling his own notes.

  “Either way, Em, our shooter has a real steady hand.” The pencil moved to the head of Maceo Donald. The two holes in his forehead, maybe a little higher on the forehead than the other man, were even closer together. “That’s unusual.”

  Ryan shrugged and began his search of the bodies. Though the senior of the two, he preferred to do this himself while Douglas took the notes. He found no weapon on either man, and though both had wallets and ID, from which they identified the unknown as Charles Barker, age twenty, the amount of cash discovered wasn’t nearly what men in their business would customarily have on their persons. Nor were there any drugs—

  “Wait, here’s something—three small glassine bags of white powdery substance,” Ryan said in the language of his profession. “Pocket change, a dollar seventy-five; cigarette lighter, Zippo, brushed steel, the cheap one. Pack of Pall Malls from the shirt pocket—and another small glassine bag of white powdery substance.”

  “A drug ripoff,” Douglas said, diagnosing the incident. It wasn’t terribly professional but it was pretty obvious. “Monroe?”

  “Yes, sir?” The young officer would never stop being a Marine. Nearly everything he said, Douglas noted, had “sir” attached to it.

  “Our friends Barker and Donald—experienced pushers?”

  “Ju-Ju’s been around since I’ve been in the district, sir. I never heard of anybody messin’ with him.”

  “No signs of a fight on the hands,” Ryan said after turning them over. “Hands are tied up with . . . electrical wire, copper wire, white insulation, trademark on it, can’t read it yet. No obvious signs of a struggle.”

  “Somebody got Ju-Ju!” It was Mark Charon, who had just arrived. “I had a case running on that fuck, too.”

  “Two exit wounds, back of Mr. Donald’s head,” Ryan went on, annoyed at the interruption. “I expect we’ll find the bullets somewhere at the bottom of this lake,” he added sourly.

  “Forget ballistics,” Douglas grunted. That wasn’t unusual with the .22. First of all, the bullet was made of soft lead, and was so easily deformed that the striations imparted by the rifling of the gun barrel were most often impossible to identify. Second, the little .22 had a lot of penetrating power, more even than a .45, and often ended up splattering itself on some object beyond the victim. In this case the cement of the walkway.

  “Well, tell me about him,” Ryan ordered.

  “Major street pusher, big clientele. Drives a nice red Caddy,” Charon added. “Pretty smart one, too.”

  “Not anymore. His brain got homogenized about six hours ago.”

  “Rip?” Charon asked.

  Douglas answered. “Looks that way. No gun, no drugs or money to speak of. Whoever did it knew their business. Looks real professional, Em. This wasn’t some junkie who got lucky.”

  “I’d have to say that’s the morning line, Tom,” Ryan replied, standing up. “Probably a revolver, but those groups are awfully tight for a Saturday-night special. Mark, any word on an experienced robber working the street?”

  “The Duo,” Charon said. “But they use a shotgun.”

  “This is almost like a mob hit. Look ’em straight in the eye—whack.” Douglas thought about his words. No, that wasn’t quite right either, was it? Mob hits were almost never this elegant. Criminals were not profi
cient marksmen, and they used cheap weapons for the most part. He and Ryan had investigated a handful of gang-related murders, and typically the victim had either been shot in the back of the head at contact range, with all the obvious forensic signs that attended such an event, or the damage was done so haphazardly that the victim was more likely to have a dozen widely scattered holes in his anatomy. These two had been taken out by someone who knew his business, and the collection of highly skilled Mafia soldiers was very slim indeed. But who had ever said that homicide investigation was an exact science? This crime scene was a mix of the routine and the unusual. A simple robbery in that the drugs and money of the victims were missing, but an unusually skillful killing in the fact that the shooter had been either very lucky—twice—or an expert shot. And a mob hit was usually not disguised as a robbery or anything else. A mob murder was most often a public statement.

  “Mark, any noise on the street about a turf war?” Douglas asked.

  “No, not really, nothing organized. A lot of stuff between pushers over street corners, but that isn’t news.”

  “You might want to ask around,” Lieutenant Ryan suggested.

  “No problem, Em. I’ll have my people check that out.”

  We’re not going to solve this one fast—maybe never, Ryan thought. Well, he thought, only on TV do you solve them in the first half hour—between commercials.

  “Can I have ’em now?”

  “All yours,” Ryan told the man from the medical examiner’s office. His black station wagon was ready, and the day was warming up. Already flies were buzzing around, drawn to the smell of blood. He headed off to his own car, accompanied by Tom Douglas. Junior detectives would have the rest of the routine work.

  “Somebody that knows how to shoot—better than me even,” Douglas said as they drove back downtown. He’d tried out for the department’s pistol team once.

  “Well, lots of people with that skill are around now, Tom. Maybe some have found employment with our organized friends.”

  “Professional hit, then?”

  “We’ll call it skillful for now,” Ryan suggested as an alternative. “We’ll let Mark do some of the scutwork on the intelligence side.”

  “That makes me feel warm all over.” Douglas snorted.

  Kelly arose at ten-thirty, feeling clean for the first time in several days. He’d showered immediately on returning to his apartment, wondering if in doing so he’d left rings on the sewers. Now he could shave, even, and that compensated for the lack of sleep. Before breakfast—brunch—Kelly drove half a mile to a local park and ran for thirty minutes, then drove back home for another thoroughly wonderful shower and some food. Then there was work to do. All the clothing from the previous evening was in a brown paper grocery bag—slacks, shirt, underwear, socks, and shoes. It seemed a shame to part with the bush jacket, whose size and pockets had proven to be so useful. He’d have to get another, probably several. He felt certain that he hadn’t been splattered with blood this time, but the dark colors made it difficult to be sure, and they probably did carry powder residue, and this was not the time to take any chances at all. Leftover food and coffee grounds went on top of the clothing, and found their way into the apartment complex’s Dumpster. Kelly had considered taking them to a distant dumpsite, but that might cause more trouble than it solved. Someone might see him, and take note of what he did, and wonder why. Disposing of the four empty .22 cases was easy. He’d dumped them down a sewer while jogging. The noon news broadcast announced the discovery of two bodies, but no details. Maybe the newspaper would say more. There was one other thing.

  “Hi, Sam.”

  “Hey, John. You in town?” Rosen asked from his office.

  “Yeah. Do you mind if I come down for a few minutes? Say around two?”

  “What can I do for you?” Rosen asked from behind his desk.

  “Gloves,” Kelly said, holding his hand up. “The kind you use, thin rubber. Do they cost much?”

  Rosen almost asked what the gloves were for, but decided he didn’t need to know. “Hell, they come in boxes of a hundred pair.”

  “I don’t need that many.”

  The surgeon pulled open a drawer in his credenza and tossed over ten of the paper-and-plastic bags. “You look awfully respectable.” And so Kelly did, dressed in a button-down white shirt and his blue CIA suit, as he’d taken to calling it. It was the first time Rosen had seen him in a tie.

  “Don’t knock it, doc.” Kelly smiled. “Sometimes I have to be. I even have a new job, sort of.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Sort of consulting.” Kelly gestured. “I can’t say about what, but it requires me to dress properly.”

  “Feeling okay?”

  “Yes, sir, just fine. Jogging and everything. How are things with you?”

  “The usual. More paperwork than surgery, but I have a whole department to supervise.” Sam touched the pile of folders on his desk. The small talk was making him uneasy. It seemed that his friend was wearing a disguise, and though he knew Kelly was up to something, in not knowing exactly what it was, he managed to keep his conscience under control. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure, doc.”

  “Sandy’s car broke down. I was going to run her home, but I’ve got a meeting that’ll run till four. She gets off shift at three.”

  “You’re letting her work regular hours now?” Kelly asked with a smile.

  “Sometimes, when she’s not teaching.”

  “If it’s okay with her, it’s okay with me.”

  It was only a twenty-minute wait that Kelly disposed of by going to the cafeteria for a light snack. Sandy O’Toole found him there, just after the three-o’clock change of shift.

  “Like the food better now?” she asked him.

  “Even hospitals can’t hurt a salad very much.” He hadn’t figured out the institutional fascination with Jell-O, however. “I hear your car’s broke.”

  She nodded, and Kelly saw why Rosen had her working a more regular schedule. Sandy looked very tired, her fair skin sallow, with puffy dark patches under both eyes. “Something with the starter—wiring. It’s in the shop.”

  Kelly stood. “Well, my lady’s carriage awaits.” His remark elicited a smile, but it was one of politeness rather than amusement.

  “I’ve never seen you so dressed up,” she said on the way to the parking garage.

  “Well, don’t get too worked up about it. I can still roll in the mud with the best of ’em.” And his jesting failed again.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Relax, ma’am. You’ve had a long day at the office, and your driver has a crummy sense of humor.”

  Nurse O’Toole stopped and turned. “It’s not your fault. Bad week. We had a child, auto accident. Doctor Rosen tried, but the damage was too great, and she faded out on my shift, day before yesterday. Sometimes I hate this work,” Sandy concluded.

  “I understand,” Kelly said, holding the door open for her. “Look, you want the short version? It’s never the right person. It’s never the right time. It never makes any sense.”

  “That’s a nice way of looking at things. Weren’t you trying to cheer me up?” And that, perversely, made her smile, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that Kelly wanted to see.

  “We all try to fix the broken parts as best we can, Sandy. You fight your dragons. I fight mine,” Kelly said without thinking.

  “And how many dragons have you slain?”

  “One or two,” Kelly said distantly, trying to control his words. It surprised him how difficult that had become. Sandy was too easy to talk with.

  “And what did it make better, John?”

  “My father was a fireman. He died while I was over there. House fire, he went inside and found two kids, they were down from smoke. Dad got them out okay, but then he had a heart attack on the spot. They say he was dead before he hit the ground. That counted for something,” Kelly said, remembering what Admiral Maxwell had said, in the sick bay of
USS Kitty Hawk, that death should mean something, that his father’s death had.

  “You’ve killed people, haven’t you?” Sandy asked.

  “That’s what happens in a war,” Kelly agreed.

  “What did that mean? What did it do?”

  “If you want the big answer, I don’t have it. But the ones I took out didn’t ever hurt anybody else.” PLASTIC FLOWER sure as hell didn’t, he told himself. No more village chiefs and their families. Maybe someone else had taken the work over, but maybe not, too.

  Sandy watched the traffic as he headed north on Broadway. “And the ones who killed Tim, did they think the same thing?”

  “Maybe they did, but there’s a difference.” Kelly almost said that he’d never seen one of his people murder anyone, but he couldn’t say that anymore, could he?

  “But if everybody believes that, then where are we? It’s not like diseases. You fight against things that hurt everybody. No politics and lying. We’re not killing people. That’s why I do this work, John.”

  “Sandy, thirty years ago there was a guy named Hitler who got his rocks off killing people like Sam and Sarah just because of what their goddamned names were. He had to be killed, and he was, too damned late, but he was.” Wasn’t that a simple enough lesson?

  “We have problems enough right here,” she pointed out. That was obvious from the sidewalks they passed, for Johns Hopkins was not in a comfortable neighborhood.

  “I know that, remember?”