Eye Of Vengeance Part 8

The room was dominated by a long, polished maple conference table and at the other end sat Hargrave and a sheriff's lieutenant Nick recognized as head of special operations. Against the wall behind them stood a middle-aged man whom Nick judged to be a lawyer by the cut of his suit and tie. He had a file opened in his hands and did not look up as they entered, never a good sign, Nick thought. It was Cameron's job to make introductions.

"Gentlemen," he began, a slight catch in his throat. "Mr. Mullins is here as requested. Mr. Mullins, this is Lieutenant Steve Canfield."

Canfield stood up as Nick worked his way down the length of the table on the side opposite Hargrave and offered his hand.

"I believe we've met," he said, "at one news conference or another."

Nick had had few dealings with Canfield but respected him. He had started as a street cop and rose to be commander of the department's SWAT operations and then implemented the first community policing program as a captain in a rough neighborhood in the northwest section of the county.

"It was actually during a training exercise at the abandoned Margate hospital when you were running SWAT, sir," Nick said, shaking the lieutenant's hand. "Probably four, five years ago when I was putting together a magazine piece."

"Yes, I think you're right," he said and then sat.

Nick detected a movement from the mystery man when he had mentioned the SWAT exercise. The man had slightly lowered his file and Nick caught his eyes peering at him over the top edge of the paperwork.

"And you know Detective Hargrave," Cameron said, "who you met the other day."

Hargrave nodded but did not look up from his hands, which were clasped and resting on the table before him. Nick extended his own hand but, instead of presenting a handshake, turned his palm up to show the indentations that were still visible from its time pressed into the stones on the roof of the diagnostic center.

"Yesterday, in fact," Nick said and then withdrew the hand.

"OK, please," Lieutenant Canfield quickly said. "Fellas, let's sit and talk about some concerns."

As they pulled out chairs, Nick could see Cameron's uneasiness as he cut his eyes from the lieutenant to the man still standing at the wall. Canfield picked up on the mood of the room.

"Guys, this is Agent Fitzgerald, who is an observer from a, uh, federal agency who will be sitting in."

Fitzgerald raised his eyes again and nodded. Hargrave stared at his hands. Cameron said nothing, but scratched something onto the pad he'd now placed on the table.

"OK. We all know why we're here," Canfield began.

No one at the table responded. The statement had perhaps caught them all cynically thinking, No, we don't know why the h.e.l.l we're here. Why don't you tell us?

"Detective, you've got a homicide case that's still fresh. I know you want to work that with every advantage available, and I know you've got your methods.

"Mr. Mullins, you've got a job to do as a member of the press covering this incident and we all respect that. You've been quick to come up with information that you're presenting to the public, and we respect that too."

Both men nodded their agreement to the obvious and let the silence force Canfield into saying something they didn't already know.

"We would normally let these things run their course," the lieutenant continued. "But Mr. Fitzgerald here is now connected peripherally to the case because his agency has been alerted to all shooting incidents in which a sniper might have been involved.

"They have been using a computer-a.s.sisted alert system to red-flag reports nationwide and then dispatching agents to observe and be made aware of any, uh, protocols that might match up and be useful to them."

Protocols? Nick was watching the agent to see if the man was going to make any acknowledgment of the lieutenant's useless bureaucratic jargon.

"Sniper shootings?" Nick suddenly said, again using his big mouth to get at least some kind of reaction, juggle things up a bit and see if anything fell. "You're specifically looking at sniper shootings?" He took out his notebook. Deirdre wanted to use sniper sniper in the story, she was going to get it now. in the story, she was going to get it now.

The mystery man simply looked up over his file and fixed an unreadable, mannequinlike look at Nick's face.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

Nick loved that form of no comment. "Not at liberty." "I cannot confirm nor deny." "Beyond my purview." Everybody's a lawyer these days. But it rarely slowed him down.

"And the reason you're letting me in is that you put this sniper homicide on a fast track, and you wanna know what I know when I know it instead of waiting to read the paper tomorrow?" he said, since no one else was going to explain it.

He looked across the table at Hargrave, who was still studying his interlaced fingers, but Nick noticed the top edges of his sharp cheeks rise slightly as he suppressed a grin.

"OK. Yeah, Nick. It's on a fast track," Canfield jumped in. "And as soon as Mr. Fitzgerald knows all that we know so he can rule out that this particular shooting has any interest for his agency, he'll thank us and get on with the work he's been a.s.signed to."

That's why Nick liked the guy. Even if he knew Mr. Federal Agency was drilling into the back of his head with his stone-cold eyes, Canfield was going to just lay it out on the table in plain English.

"So you're officially looking for a sniper, not a drive-by, not a random shooting?" Nick said, just to make sure.

"Yeah," Canfield said. "That's official."

Nick was impressed. A sniper and the presence of the feds. This was a new twist on homeland security. He didn't write anything down, he just took a moment to let the admission sink in.

"So the ball's in your court, Nick," Canfield said.

Nick felt Cameron shift in the chair beside him. This was touchy stuff, asking a journalist to divulge information before publication. Nick knew he could easily fall back on the old freedom-of-the-press line and walk away. But he was also too d.a.m.ned intrigued by the exclusivity he would gain by being on the inside. And besides, as far as he knew, he didn't have squat that they wouldn't already have learned.

"OK, Steve," Nick said, using the old first-name trick. "First of all, I can't give up the names of any sources."

"We know that, Nick. We know you've got a dozen guys in the Sheriff's Office that like to talk to you. We know that's where you got Ferris's name and probably the caliber of the bullet. What we need you to tell us is whether you had some sort of early knowledge of the rooftop. We would like to know what Ferris's family might have said to you that you didn't put in the paper. And we'd like to know what Ms. Cotton told you in her interview this morning."

"Geez. Anything else, Steve?" Nick said, talking to the lieutenant but looking at Hargrave.

"Yeah." The detective finally looked up from his hands and asked directly across the table into the reporter's face, "What did the witness from the children's center tell you about a man he saw coming down off the roof before we got there?"

The question caused the federal agent to lower his file to the side of his thigh. Canfield also seemed to move his elbows forward on the table. Nick started to turn toward Cameron, who had obviously reported the encounter to the detectives, but stopped himself.

"You mean the little guy who came into work at eight?" Nick said, already knowing the answer. "The guy said he thought it was one of yours, a SWAT officer," Nick said, turning his eyes to Canfield. "Dressed in black and carrying a bag."

"Did he give you a description of the man?"

The question came from the wall, from Fitzgerald. Nick was surprised by the high, scratchy timbre of the man's voice. He thought all federal agents learned to modulate their voices in training. The man was focused, though, intensely. Nick pictured a flier posted on the bulletin board of the FBI with large black print: SNIPER. SNIPER. If you see this man ... If you see this man ...

"No. I was trying to work him when Joel came up to give me a message and then the guy, Dennis was his name, got antsy and walked away," Nick said, trying not to indict Cameron. "Why? Isn't that what he gave you guys? I mean, you've interviewed him, right?"

Hargrave looked up at Nick. "Yeah, we talked to him. Same stuff. Said the guy was above-average build, whatever the h.e.l.l that means, and had a balaclava covering most of his face. He thought he was white, and I emphasize the word thought, thought," the detective said, cutting his eyes over at the fed.

"OK, how about the roof business?" Canfield said.

"n.o.body tipped me to that," Nick said. "The photographer I was with noted the blood spatter on the wall next to the steps, lower than the victim's height. I noticed that the cops were looking up and behind us at the crime scene. I just put two and two together."

Hargrave and Canfield glanced at each other. Nick was satisfied that he hadn't used the detective's name as the one whose eyes on the rooftop had given it away.

"OK. The families?"

"I only talked to Ferris's sister-in-law, at her house trailer. She didn't sound like she was terribly crushed by the whole thing, but not exactly relieved either," Nick said. "I got the sense that her husband had been carrying his brother's load for a long time."

"Enough of a burden to want to finish him off?" Hargrave said.

"That wasn't the feel. More like enough to just bury him and try to forget," Nick said, but he was getting tired of the one-way conversation. "Why, did he say something different to you?"

He was talking directly to Hargrave, who hesitated, looked at his lieutenant and then said, "No. We checked him out with his boss and two other workers who put him in the warehouse at the time of the shooting. He isn't a suspect. He didn't say good riddance. He didn't cry. He just asked when he could pick up the body."

Nick jotted something on his reporter's pad. The room went quiet for a moment. The rules were being set.

"Ferris is not a suspect?" Nick said, looking directly into Hargrave's eyes, making sure he was getting the comment straight.

"Not at this time."

Nick knew it was a fallback position, but OK, never say never, he'd give him that.

"OK, Nick. How about Ms. Cotton?" Canfield said, trying to swing the information tide back to his side. "You got to her before we did. What did she tell you?"

"Not much," Nick said, rebuilding the scene in his head. "That she wasn't the kind of person to look for retribution. She's religious but isn't going for that eye-for-an-eye thing."

The heard-that-a-million-times feel in the room was as clear as if all three law enforcement officers had covered their mouths and yawned.

"She said she didn't know anyone who would have done Ferris, and she hadn't had any suspicious visitors or contacts that would lead her to believe anyone would shoot the guy for her."

As he said it, Nick's head jumped to a vision of the box of letters that Ms. Cotton had told him about. He should have looked at them. He should have taken down some names. But should he mention it to this group? h.e.l.l, if they'd asked the woman the same questions he had and she told them about the letters, they would probably have the box in the back room already. But just in case he jotted down "go back to Cotton on letters" in his notebook and flipped the page.

"OK, now what are you going to give me?"

Canfield started to say something, then stopped.

Nick looked over at the press officer. "You know," he said. "The reason I came in here, agreed to this trade of information?"

Cameron cut his eyes the other way. Not my call, Not my call, he was saying. he was saying. I'm just taking orders. I'm just taking orders.

"Well, you've already got the brother declared a nonsuspect. That isn't out yet," Canfield finally spoke up.

"At this time," Hargrave said off to the side.

Nick went from face to face. All eyes were down. They always knew more than they told you. Always.

"How about ballistics?" he said, trying to pry something loose.

"You've already got that, Nick. It was a .308. Actually, a Federal Match loaded with the 168-grain Boat Tail Hollow Point," Canfield said.

Nick jotted down the name. He didn't know s.h.i.t about bullets. But that didn't matter much to his readers.

"Federal Match?" he said, cutting his eyes to the agent, who was still standing. "Does that mean it only comes from the military?"

The agent's eyes lifted and Nick detected a muscle twitch in the guy's jaw as it tightened. OK. If you were a poker player, that was a tell. Did mention of the military trip the guy?

"No, not at all," Canfield said quickly. "It's a round that's on the civilian and law enforcement market. Anyone could buy it."

"Any prints on the casing?" Nick said, working it.

"Never found a casing," Hargrave answered, not looking up until he asked his own question: "Did you?"

Nick let it pa.s.s. He knew his reputation would have already been pa.s.sed to Hargrave. He'd never keep something that vital to a case to himself. It was more than unethical, it would have been stupid. Instead he took the opportunity to nail an attribution for the rooftop site.

"So you're saying the kill shot was taken from the roof?"

Canfield nodded. The creases in Hargrave's brow made it clear he was in pain giving such information to a reporter. Nick let it sit for a moment and then carefully set up his next question, wanting to watch the reaction, see which of the men in the room clenched his teeth the hardest, or breathed deepest, or just got up and walked out.

"So, you're working the angle that it's a military sniper or a law enforcement sniper?"

No one flinched. The fed even controlled his jaw muscle. Everyone was in control, almost like they'd expected the question and rehea.r.s.ed. Even Nick knew by now that it would be Canfield's job to answer the delicate ones.

"We would be remiss in our duty, Nick, not to pursue all possibilities."

Nick let the standard answer hang in the air for a moment, but couldn't control himself.

"So you guys learned a lesson from the D.C. Beltway, eh?"

This time the federal officer's eyes came up and seared into Nick's. Gotcha, Nick thought.

In the fall of 2002, the Beltway sniper case had scared the h.e.l.l out of Washington, D.C, and surrounding Virginia when ten innocent people had been killed, shot dead by a cold-blooded sniper from long distances as they were going about their daily lives. One was filling her tank at a gas station. Another was carrying groceries. Another picking up her son at school. In the flurry that built after the second shooting, the rumors and a.s.sumptions flew. The speculation, fed by so-called sources from the FBI and both the state and local police departments, was that a disturbed soldier, active or retired, or some rampaging cop was serially wreaking havoc. The shots were too difficult. The skill in striking and then disappearing was too well planned and logistical. The weaponry too sophisticated.

When the killer was finally caught, it turned out to be some teenager firing from the trunk of a car driven by the boy's p.i.s.sed-off and most likely deranged stepfather. Amateurs. The speculators had been all wrong.

"Like your fellow seers in the media didn't like jumping on that? Like they had some f.u.c.king movie playing out," Hargrave mumbled.

"No argument there, Detective," Nick said. "No one's finest hour on that one."

In the following silence, Canfield shoved his chair back, signaling an end to the meeting. Nick flipped his notebook closed. The fed pushed off the wall with one hip, turned without a word and started out the adjoining door.

"OK, Nick. Please keep in touch through Mr. Cameron's office," Canfield said as he stood and offered his hand.

"I will," Nick said, shaking the lieutenant's hand over the table.

Hargrave stood during the formality and met Nick's eyes, his own holding a look devoid of hostility or superiority. The softened lines surprised Nick, and forced his eyebrows to rise in antic.i.p.ation.

"Check you later," the detective said, a phrase that in one way may have said nothing. But Nick didn't think so. There was a crack in the ice.

"Anytime," he said, taking the man's hand, almost skeletal in its thinness and sharp protrusions of knuckle and bone. But once again he noted the taut cablelike muscles in the detective's forearm. I would not want to be caught in that guy's grip in a dark alley, he thought and carried his own warning out the door.

When Nick got back to the newsroom it was almost six PM PM. It was the busiest part of the day, when reporters had all come back into the house after being out on a.s.signment, when a.s.sistant city editors were working line by line to get through each of their charges' daily stories, asking questions, getting clarification, trying to make sure photographs taken during the day were matched up with the right reports and generally busting hump to clear the decks before deadline.