Closure

  Why?

  —TWENTY-SEVEN—

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

  Approximately 2,706 are repeat offenders.

  It was without a doubt the nicest sniper position Sam had ever had. The carpeting was soft under his elbows; the air conditioning 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 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 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. He 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. The man 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. He looked at the 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 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. He 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.”

  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 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.

  “Damn it,” he cursed. He needed the fire to do its job before the department got there. Unfortunately, the closest station was right across Daniels from the entrance to the development, hence the high volume of gasoline. Sam quickly dismissed the problem and concentrated on his exit.

  He rounded the last corner to see the exit gate still wide open as usual. You needed a code to get in the entrance, yet the exit was wide open, and beyond the kiosk rather than next to it. Didn’t make a lot of sense to Sam when he first saw it, a simple lane change and lack of oncoming traffic and you were in. He was now counting on it to make his e
scape. He placed the ball cap on his head as he approached, and donned the sunglasses in case they somehow got a look through the tint. The guard was busy with a burgundy Park Avenue, and Sam sailed through without a tap of the brakes. As he passed the fountain, he heard the sounds of sirens cranking up. A double blast of the air horn and he saw the trucks approaching the boulevard entrance. “South Trail Fire Department,” Sam read off the side of the truck before he turned right into the Denny’s. He parked quickly and watched them pass. A look at the windows showed the customers all gazing after the trucks as they screamed their way in. Sam took the opportunity to move across the parking lot to the Wendy’s next door. Inside he ordered a large iced tea. He unwrapped a straw and tossed the wrapper and the keys to the Cadillac into the trash bin. Sipping the tea, he walked out the same entrance and got into the other rental car. He was soon westbound on Daniels Parkway. A Lee County ambulance passed him in the opposite lane, joined by a green striped county sheriff’s car. Faster response times than Sam had predicted, but they were too late regardless. He continued until he passed 41. Daniels Parkway now changed its name to Cypress and he stayed on it until he came to MacGregor. Taking a right, he was soon at the Cape Coral Bridge. Passing under it he entered the traffic approaching the toll booth. He fished a dollar’s worth of coins from his pocket and thumbed down the window. The heat rolled in as he tossed the coins in the basket. With the gate up, he joined the merging traffic entering the bridge. He made his way across the Caloosahatchee River and was soon in Cape Coral. Traffic was bad, and he found himself waiting at multiple red lights. He contemplated his decision as he waited. The shooting had taken place close to the only major freeway in the area. It was also not far from the airport, and Sam had decided to evade in the opposite direction. He was counting on the police to close off the major exits, so he had chosen a back road in the direction of Tampa. Escaping Cape Coral was his immediate concern. The city only had a few entrances and exits. Three bridges to the east over the river, two of which were major arteries and easily closed. The others led to Cape Coral only. There were more options by boat than there were by car so Sam was going out the back door. He had chosen Burnt Store Road, a two-lane that followed the edge of Charlotte Harbor up to Punta Gorda. It was an area that was currently seeing a construction boom also. Traffic was heavy with dump trucks and various contractors. Passing was not an option. The worst problem was there were no exits between Cape Coral and Punta Gorda. Sam was committing himself to the next twenty miles with no options. Something he didn’t like.

  He settled in behind an SUV. It was trailing a flatbed hauling a bulldozer, and he was forced to slow to fifty miles an hour. He began tuning the radio and setting the presets, looking for news stations that might broadcast the story. He thumbed from one to the other as he plodded along. Ten minutes went by before he heard the story break. He listened intently as the reporter gave the basics. TJ was pronounced dead at the scene. The fire was out and the sheriff’s department considered it a crime scene. Reporters were not being allowed into the development. People called into the station with their version of what happened. Sam waited for a vehicle description to be aired, but it didn’t come. There was no news of the Cadillac being found. He tried another station, but got only more of the same.

  He passed a fire station with a deputy’s car in the lot. He held his breath until he was past, about ten more miles to go.

  * * *

  In the house, Pat and Jeff picked through the remainder of the living room. The fire was out and they were just making sure. Pat pulled the drywall away from around the fireplace, while Jeff scanned the walls with the thermal imagery camera looking for hot spots. The police had asked them to not move anything, but the Chief had pointed out that if the fire flared up again, the cops would then have nothing. Giving in to common sense, the sheriff agreed and the Chief had sent his two most experienced men in to make sure it was safe.

  “Anything?” Pat asked.

  “Nothing on the scope. I think we got it.”

  “Good. I need a drink.”

  “Check the fridge?” Jeff joked.

  “Sometimes the realtors have water in there,” Pat answered.

  Jeff reached out with his gloved hand and pulled the door open by the frame. The inside of the refrigerator was clean and white as opposed to the soot covered stainless steel exterior. Jeff didn’t find any water. What he found was a big envelope.

  “Hey Pat, look at this.”

  Pat left the drywall and joined Jeff in the kitchen. He gazed into the dark refrigerator and saw the big envelope. FBI was printed in large letters. Underneath that was the name Jack Randall.

  “Don’t touch it. Just get the sheriff in here.”

  * * *

  Jack was reading a report from the California shooting when his phone rang. He reached out and pulled it from the cradle without taking his eyes off the page.

  “Randall.”

  “Jack, it’s Deacon.”

  Jack dropped what he was reading. “Yes, sir?”

  “Turn on CNN. Your boy just did it again. They just called us from Lee County, Florida. TJ Olson was shot while golfing this morning. They found the note in a refrigerator at an empty house the shooter used. The Director wants to see you.”

  “Score one for Larry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m on my way. I’ll explain in a minute.”

  “All right.” The phone went dead.

  Jack left his office and walked to The Pit as they had started calling it. There he found Larry, Dave, and Sydney with several others, all pushing paper.

  “He did it again,” was all he said. He reached for the remote and thumbed the overhead TV on. CNN was still running the story. They all watched it in silence.

  “Well,” Larry asked, “what now?”

  “First, you and I are going to the Director’s office.”

  “Why am I going?” Larry asked with a pained expression. He avoided the Director as much as possible.

  “Because you said it first, and I’m not going alone.” Jack smiled and spun to leave. Larry gave Sydney a puzzled look as he grudgingly got up to follow. He fixed his tie as he went.

  Sydney looked at Dave and shrugged. “Let’s call them and see what they have.”

  Dave shook his head at that. “More paper. We need some more help.”

  Sydney picked up a file she had set aside. It had been delivered to her only an hour ago.

  “Speaking of which...”

  She got up and left in the direction of Jack’s office.

  —TWENTY-EIGHT—

  The state of Nevada holds 10,543 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 7,063 are repeat offenders.

  “Jack, tell me you have something.”

  Jack and Larry sat across from the Director over a large and somewhat messy desk. A view of the Washington skyline could be seen out the window with the Lincoln Memorial in the distance. The Director was a collector of World War Two memorabilia, and his office held several pieces, including a letter from Eisenhower to Patton. Larry struggled to read it from a distance while still appearing attentive.

  “I’m afraid we don’t. Obviously this guy has these things set up well in advance. Money doesn’t seem to be a problem. He’s moving too fast for us to catch up. I’m pulling the team from following any more.”

  The Director chewed on this for a moment. The thing he had first noticed about Jack was his lack of an agenda. He already had money, and if he wanted it, power. It gave him the unique ability to speak his mind and not worry about the political consequences. The answer he had just received was an honest one, despite the fact that it didn’t paint him in a favorable light. The last sentence was not something he understood.

  “You’re keeping the team here, why?”

  “If we keep chasing him we’ll stay behind him until he’s done. I feel we need to focus on where he’s going next. The local offices can work the scenes and forward ev
erything they have.”

  The Director ran a hand through his rapidly graying hair. The Attorney General was not going to approve of that. He liked Jack on the TV. Showing the public they were on the case. It also cemented Jack as the fall guy should this end badly.

  An annoying tapping diverted his attention and he gazed at Larry who immediately stopped drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair.

  “Why are you here?” the Director asked

  “He was the one who suggested we look at people that the shooter may target. TJ was the first name on the list,” Jack jumped in before Larry could speak.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir,” Larry answered.

  “So where is he going next then?”

  Jack sat back before answering. “He, or they, I guess I should say, seem to target people who they feel have skirted justice. So far, the targets have all been people who have been in the system, but have somehow beaten it or corrupted it. He likes high profile, and he has an agenda. I hate to say it but it’s working. I just read a report stating that calls to tip lines have doubled, and people are taking some matters into their own hands. A robbery target at a convenience store beat his assailant and he ended up in the intensive care unit last night in Kansas City. Report says the customers helped him do it. No charges as of this morning.”

  “No charges?”

  “Nobody called the cops. All the information is from the assailant and an anonymous phone call. Caller explained where to find the man. That’s all they have.”

  “That’s exactly what we don’t need. I’m sure the press will have that nation-wide soon. You still didn’t answer my question.”

  “We’re thinking Mafia heads who have escaped prosecution, anyone on the pedophile list, some of the high profile corporate criminals. Sad to say it, but it’s a long list. I have them focusing on the ones that would generate the most press. With luck we’ll get an ID from some forensics, but this guy has proven to be quite knowledgeable in that area. I’m not optimistic.”

  The Director swung his chair around and gazed out the window while he thought over what he was told. Jack shared a look with Larry while they waited.