“So?” It was Sydney’s turn to be confused.
“He knows that people may try to copy him for their own goals when the word leaks out, and he’s using the handwritten messages to prove the work is his. He wants us to get his message without interference.”
“So we just hope that it doesn’t leak?” Sydney asked. “I don’t understand. I would think he would want it to go public eventually. Draw all the attention he could get to his cause.”
“Yeah, it’s gonna leak sooner or later. If it doesn’t he’ll make it.”
Larry cleared his throat. “Uh, Jack?”
Jack looked over at him.
“You might want to look at the next page.”
Jack picked up the fax again and flipped to the next page.
“Damn it!”
* * *
“They won’t hold it?” Jack was on the secure phone to his boss.
“Are you kidding, if it was just one paper, maybe for a day or two, but three major papers? No way. They’re running with it tonight on the networks, and promising full articles with the letter published also. We can’t stop them, Jack. Article One, perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Deacon was not pleased, but he knew when he was beat. “At least they honored the policy. We have the letters in the lab. You have what the documents people turned up. The initial report looks like no prints. Postmark is Vegas, and it came via Fed-Ex overnight. The Post and Times letters had copies of newspaper articles just like the last letter, but the Orlando Sentinel did not. I think our man added them to his mailing list at the last minute. We’re concentrating on that letter first. It was addressed to the reporter that caught your ugly face at the scene. He put it together. Well, sort of. Let’s just say that he knows what he doesn’t know. His name is Danny Drake. Unfortunately, he wasn’t familiar with procedures on receiving a letter like that. A half dozen people handled it before his editor called us. The Orlando office is printing those people now. By the way, this Drake guy is on his way to Vegas. Our print guy saw his ticket sticking out of his pocket.”
“Great. This letter is just gonna stir up trouble, sir, it’d be nice if they would wait to print.” Jack knew his job had just gotten a lot more difficult. The case would become a media event and he would have to address the press just to keep them from inventing the story. Jack realized the importance of a free press, but today’s tabloid journalist often tried his patience. They had made both his investigation and his personal life difficult in the past. He was not looking forward to his wife’s reaction to reporters on the front lawn again. He put that aside for now.
“Documents tells us all three letters came from the same guy, Jack. He’s signing his work.” Deacon was steering the conversation away from the press issue.
“Yeah, we picked up on that too. If we tell the press that and they print it, it may help discourage copycats. What do you think?” Jack rolled with it.
“I think it’s too early. We need more information on this guy. I’d like some information that could determine if he has help or not, also, if this is a smoke screen. What if he’s doing this just to hide his real target in a group? So far it’s just been two guys with plenty of enemies. They may even have a connection between them. This gang leader had some big lawyers in his pocket. I’m sure some of them knew or even worked with Addicot.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve got Dave working that angle with his crew. Sydney keyed in on something.” He smiled across the plane when her head snapped around. She glared at him. “She thinks our guy is new to bombing.” He went on to explain her theory.
“She may be right, certainly something to keep in mind. I have to go, Jack. The Director wants to hear what we have, and the press secretary needs to be briefed. You’re under the scope now, Jack, do us proud.” Deacon hung up.
“Yes, sir,” Jack said to himself. He looked up in time to see Larry down a fistful of antacid. It wasn’t a good sign, but Jack couldn’t really blame him. The plane’s nose dropped as they descended toward Vegas. At least it was warmer than DC.
“Can I get some of those, Larry?”
* * *
DVR was the best invention ever made, Paul decided. He was watching one channel while recording two others. He had watched the coverage of yesterday’s bombing in Vegas. The talking heads and their resident experts had dubbed it a move by an opposing gang, or possibly a strike from inside the victim’s own organization. Only one network had gone on and given the viewers a brief biography of the man. Not a very favorable one. In the end, the story was reported briefly and then they moved on to the next piece of news for the day, usually another crime or some celebrity dirt. It was amazing what the media deemed important. That all changed when the letters reached the papers and were shared with their affiliate parent companies. It was the top story tonight and now Paul could see repeat tape of the scene in Florida on one channel, while the other had shots of the bomb site in Vegas. Sections of the letter were read, but the copy was not shown.
“Thank you, FBI!” Paul said as he turned up the volume.
He watched until all the networks had moved on to another subject. He would try to catch the evening political talk shows. That was where they hoped to really get peoples’ attention. The host would interview Senators and Congressmen and hammer them on the subject. Paul thought their goal would ultimately be won or lost there. He picked up the remote and consulted his TV guide. After programming in all the shows he wished to record for Sam, he got up and headed out to his garage. He had work to do.
Paul was a handy guy. Good with his hands and the possessor of an analytical mind. As a result, he could make all kinds of things. Such a man was usually the owner of a vast quantity of tools and Paul was no exception. Today he had a project that required some skill.
Out in the barn, Paul pulled a small box from under a workbench. Inside he had a disassembled Ruger .22 semi-automatic pistol with a blued finish and wood grip. He picked up the barrel and moved to his metal lathe. Sam had told Paul specifically about his choice of .22, and Paul saw the wisdom of it when he looked it up on the internet. The Ruger MK-678 was a small, easily concealed weapon, that had one important difference over its competitors; it came with a 6-7/8" barrel that was round. This allowed the modifications that Sam needed done to be made with much less difficulty. Paul had removed the front sight yesterday, and now the barrel was ready to be turned.
Paul set the barrel on the lathe and performed his usual one-minute search for the chuck key. After tightening the chuck down on the barrel just enough to hold it in place, he slid the tail-stock up to meet the business end of the barrel. The tail-stock held a centering fixture he had machined up yesterday to fit the barrel. This was necessary to accomplish two things. It would hold the barrel perfectly straight, yet also provide enough clearance for the tool to machine the very end. He then produced a dial indicator and set the magnetic base on the tool rest. The needle was rested against the barrel and he turned the lathe by hand and gently tightened the chuck until the needle no longer moved with each spin. The tail-stock was then tightened down and the barrel once again spun a full 360 degrees. The needle remained in place. Paul was now ready to turn.
He powered up the lathe and adjusted the RPM to the appropriate speed. Another pause while he located his bottle of turning oil and a set of safety glasses that weren’t too scratched up. Paul quickly had the barrel turned down to a diameter of .600. He rotated the tool rest and proceeded more slowly to a diameter of .500. He paused to let the metal cool and got himself a drink. The smoke from the oil cooking on the hot metal always made him a little nauseous. Paul looked over his work while sipping a Coke. He was ruining this barrel for accuracy, but then again range would not be a real problem. Sam had called it a “Hush Puppy.” Like the shoemaker. Said they had been used in Vietnam to silence dogs. Well, his would be a crude copy based on a sketch Sam had made and Paul had refined. The principles were the same. Paul understood what he was making. It was just his first time.
After making some careful adjustments to the lathe and consulting his old machinist handbook, he began a series of turns to place threads on the barrel. Half-sixteen threads; they had to be perfect in relation to the bore. If the angle was off, even just a little, it was time for a new barrel. Paul took his time and checked the needle gauge after every pass. When he felt he was deep enough he turned off the lathe and blew the barrel clean with an air hose. The barrel showed a shiny set of threads from the tip back about three-fourths of an inch. He adjusted the RPMs to a very slow speed and picked up a rat-tail file. With the barrel turning he applied gentle pressure to the first two threads. After a few passes, he again blew the barrel clean. Now for the moment of truth. He pulled a thread gauge out from his tool box and slid back the tail-stock. The gauge went on the threads perfectly and spun with moderate resistance until it bottomed out at the end. Paul jiggled the gauge. No movement. The threads were perfect. He removed the barrel from the chuck and took it to his parts washer. After a thorough rinsing, he again blew it clean with his air hose. Looked good. If he could, Paul would have shown it to his amateur machinist buddies. But that wasn’t really an option. Besides, he was only half done. He applied a coat of oil to keep it from rusting and set it aside.
Under the bench, he found a second box with some objects wrapped in the pink-red rags he used in the garage. They were slightly wet with oil to protect the pieces from rust. Paul unrolled a six-inch long steel tube from the rags and another of loose parts. The tube showed a 3/8 inch hole in one end while the other had a hole tapped for half-inch fine threads. This end also had a knurled finish on it for about an inch. Paul gripped the knurled end and spun the cap off the tube. The cap was so finely machined you couldn’t see the seam at the end of the knurled section. The cap spun loose slowly as Paul could not afford to drop it and damage the threads. Once the cap was off, he set it aside and reached for the pile of parts he had laid out. The parts were simple, and Paul was proud of his design. By using pre-manufactured parts, he had made the job both easier and elegant. All engineers loved simple, clever solutions to such problems, and he was no exception. Paul had purchased a length of 3/4 inch stainless steel hydraulic tubing, and a pile of 3/4 to 3/8 reducer bushings from a local supplier. After turning the inside diameter of the steel tube to fit the outside diameter of the tubing down to a slip fit tolerance, he’d then cut the tubing to lengths that allowed him to use them as spacers between the reducer bushings. By sliding the reducers down the steel tubing and placing a spacer between each one, Paul created a series of cone shaped chambers within the tube with a 3/8 inch hole still running down the center. The last inch was taken up by a heavy spring. When the end-cap was screwed down, the spring was compressed and everything was held firmly in place.
Paul held the assembled silencer up to the light. He could see clearly down the tube. The hole was straight as an arrow and allowed just enough clearance for a .22 round. He walked it over to the bench with the barrel. The two pieces slid together perfectly. This time he looked down both the barrel and the tube and was pleased to see the two were in perfect alignment. Pulling them apart he reassembled the pistol and applied the silencer before holding it out at arms length. It was heavy. Paul had a hard time keeping a sight picture on the gas can in the corner. But then there was no sight in the front anymore. Maybe he could tack one on the end of the silencer? That might get caught on clothing. Did Sam even need one? He would have to ask him next time he called. Paul walked to the basement and opened the locked door on his office. He extracted a box of .22 subsonic rounds from his bottom desk drawer, and then went upstairs and out into the back yard. He sat down on the picnic table and loaded a five round clip. After ratcheting the slide back to load a shell, he aimed out into the wood-line, extended the pistol to arm’s length and turned his head away. He trusted his work, but you never knew. His finger slowly squeezed off a round. The sound was not what he expected. Instead of the chirp noise he had heard in the movies, he heard more of a cough. Like a man sneezing loudly into a handkerchief. Looking at the pistol, he saw that the slide had returned, and there was now another round in the chamber. Switching to a two-hand grip he squeezed off the other four rounds, same noise as before, no louder or softer. Good. It worked just as Sam said it would. The baffles created by the bushings and spacers trapped the expanding gases leaving the barrel. This, and the round being sub-sonic, drastically reduced the noise created by the shot. Sam said they could quiet it even more if they added a lock to the slide, preventing it from moving during the shot. Doing so would require the lock to be disengaged, the slide worked by hand, and the lock then re-engaged between each shot. Something they’d decided was too time consuming.
Paul checked his watch. The sun was going down, and his butt was getting cold. He policed his brass up off the snow and stowed it in a pocket. It was time for something to eat. But first he went back to the barn to clean and oil his new creation.
—FOURTEEN—
The state of Indiana holds 23,069 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 15,474 are repeat offenders.
“Sydney Lewis! How the hell are ya?” She threw her arms open for a hug. Stacie Shaw was from Tennessee, you only had to hear her speak to know. Despite her higher education and years in Las Vegas, she still had a strong accent.
Sydney couldn’t help but smile as she was wrapped up in her friend’s arms. She and Stacie had been in school together back in Tennessee. Sydney was three years her junior when Stacie took a shine to her and helped her through some rough spots. As a result, they had formed a solid friendship, and kept in touch. Now they had their first chance to actually work together on a real case.
Stacie held her friend at arm’s length and looked her over.
“Don’t you eat, girl? Skinny as when I saw you last. Who do I have to do to get my own plane? Must be nice. Wanna see the car? Where’s Jack?”
Sydney’s grin got wider. Stacie’s method of rapid talk with equally rapid changes in topic threw off most people. The best way to deal with it was just to dive in and try to keep up.
“Jack’s talking to your boss. Not my plane, belongs to the Deputy Director. You have the car here?” she replied.
“Sure, still gift-wrapped so-to-speak. Real mess your boy made. We still have people out at the scene cleaning it up. It’s out in the barn. Follow me people!” Sydney’s crew picked up their bags and followed as ordered.
The barn turned out to be a large garage at the rear of the facility with an overabundance of white light and a spotless floor. In the middle of the room sat a large somewhat car-shaped object wrapped in layers of clear packaging wrap. Off to one side were five orange barrels, similarly wrapped. The door on the other side opened, and several people emerged as they walked into the room. They lined up like opposing football teams. Sydney caught a few looks she recognized.
“My crew.” Stacie proclaimed with a sweep of her arm. Her people proceeded to make self introductions all around. Most were friendly, some not. Sydney couldn’t blame them. Nobody liked their territory stepped on. It made her think of what Stacie must be thinking. She decided to defuse the whole situation.
“Well.” Stacie looked at her. “Where do you want to start?”
“Stacie, this is your ground. We’re just here to assist and tie it in with what we have from the Florida shooting. We start from wherever you think is best.” Sydney gave her friend a look.
Stacie smiled. Sydney wasn’t going to embarrass her in front of her crew. She would do the same for Sydney.
“Okay, let’s pair your people up with mine and open our presents.” She then split the crews, divided the work, and soon everyone was busy.
“Coffee?” Stacie asked ten minutes later. She cocked her head toward her office.
“Sure.”
Once she had her friend inside and the door closed, Stacie was back in friend mode.
“I will thank you now for not taking over. Some of my people were a little put off by you coming here. Yo
u are a class-act, girl. How’s Jack, has he still got that nice ass I seem to remember?” Stacie flopped in her chair and pulled out the bottom drawer of her desk to hold up her feet.
Sydney dropped into the only other chair. She knew this was coming.
“Thank you, I wouldn’t dream of stepping on your head and Jack’s ass is no longer mine to worry about.”
“Are you telling me you don’t keep track?”
Sydney hesitated, “I believe everything is in its place.”
“Ha!” Stacie pointed. “I knew it. I will of course verify this information when I see him myself. Working together okay?”
“Yes, he takes care of all his people, but I’m a little worried about him on this one. The pressure is on now that it’s gone public and he can’t afford for me to miss anything. We have to really nail this down.”
“Don’t you worry, girl, my people are top-notch. They might be a little tired at the moment because I’ve had them working the scene for the past two days. The scene sucked as far as weather conditions. The open area to the south across the airport really let the wind do its thing. We dished the stuff we could see as quickly as we could. I had them use a grid that was tighter than usual. I’m considering having the concrete barriers brought in so they can open the road back up. I also found some pieces stuck in a sign, so that’s coming in. Other than that, it looks like a minefield of Petri dishes, a hole in the road, and some fire and shrapnel damage. Bombs. I hate ’em, lots of dust, a ton of chemistry to run, scene degradation, body parts, just a damn mess. It’ll be weeks before we have everything done.”
“Jack just needs the highlights. Something to connect your bomber with our shooter, other than the letter, would make his day. Any ideas?”
“Nothing off hand. Your guy likes cars, both of the victims done in the car, strange fetish?”
Sydney thought about that. The cars, nobody had even brought that up before. Could that have something to do with it? She doubted it, but it was worth mentioning to Jack.