Corrector (10 page)

Perhaps he could back-track and inform the police of the impending attack?  Unfortunately, he was pretty certain how that would go.  Who was he and how did he know of an upcoming attack?  His call would probably be treated as a crank call, and if investigated at all it would be a simple patrol car that might be dispatched.  If it arrived late, the attack would be underway and it would be unlikely they would be able to do more than cut the attack short.  People would still die.  If the police came too early they would scare the shooter away.  Jake was very concerned with that.  If he read the killer correctly, the man would be enraged and would seek another opportunity soon.  It was likely he already had selected an alternate location.  Given the nature of the attack, any number of locations would be suitable.  That would mean Jake’s interference would save certain people, but cause others who had been safe to be killed.  That seemed even worse.

What Jake wanted was the police to dispatch a sniper team of their own and be in place and ready to take the SOB down permanently before he could cause any death or destruction.  Sadly, he knew the police wouldn’t take such action on the basis of a call from an unidentified individual.  Perhaps if enough of these situations arose with warning calls they would start to take the warnings seriously, but Jake didn’t even want to go there.  How many would die before that might happen?

It had been seven days now.  Given the time it would take him to make preparations and to get in place to deal with the man as well as ensure his own escape, he had to decide this afternoon. 

Jake had enjoyed the drive down 395 to Los Angeles the previous afternoon.  He had taken his BMW, savoring the feel of the powerful machine as he watched the snow covered peaks of the mountains flow past on his right.  The weather had been clear and the skies cloudless, making for an easy drive.  He had driven across town, passing by the scene where the attack would be taking place, noting the scene he had seen on television multiple times.  He had seen the overpass near where the killer had hidden, and the open park behind where he’d been. 

Jake had headed straight toward Los Angeles International Airport, where he had parked the BMW in the multilevel lot of the Hilton Hotel and where he had booked a room the day before.  His car was just one of many in the lot, a significant fraction of which belonged to people who were not staying at the hotel.  People stopped by for meetings, for lunch, or to visit other guests.  No one kept track of the cars parked here, and leaving his car for a couple of days wouldn’t attract attention.

He brought only his luggage bag as he made his way into the hotel to the reception area to check in.  His other gear would be safe enough in the trunk for now.  At the desk he handed the receptionist, a tall and pretty woman with long brown hair, his ID, in this case a fake driver’s license, followed by his credit card which he took a moment to dig out of his wallet.  As was always the case at hotels and rental car agencies, especially if the ID was offered first, the receptionist checked the name on the ID, then only casually glanced at the credit card as she ran an imprint through the machine.  It was different in retail stores.  There they expected the credit card first, and checked the name on the card.  When they asked for confirming ID, they then looked at the name on the supporting documentation and were more likely to catch the discrepancy.  Jake always made sure the name on the credit card matched the ID when he made purchases in such places.  He actually carried two credit cards that were linked to the ID he was carrying.  The American Express account was a true match to his Driver’s license.  All, of course were fake.

He actually had two wallets.  The black one he was carrying at the moment carried his fake identity.  The brown one, hidden away in a special compartment in his car, had his real papers.  He’d switched just before leaving the car, and would switch again on his way back to Reno.

“You’re checked in for three days,” the pretty lady told him as she handed back his ID and credit card having missed the differences in the names on the two.  It shouldn’t matter, as the bill would get paid when submitted, and the hotel would never pick up on the error.  “Have you been here before?  Do you know the way to your room?”

“First time,” Jake admitted.

She pointed the way to the elevators and gave him a quick set of instructions Jake assumed she repeated a hundred times a day from the speed at which she spoke.

Jake nodded his understanding, grabbed the handle of his rolling suitcase, and headed in the direction indicated.  He stopped in his room only long enough to set his suitcase in place and use the head, then left, taking the elevator to the lobby where he headed outside and asked for a cab to the airport.

The cab dropped him at the American Airlines departure terminal, the cabbie grumbling at the short trip until Jake handed him a significant tip.  As the cab pulled away, Jake headed into the terminal, then made his way down the interior escalator to the arrivals level where he headed past the baggage carousels and out onto the street.  There he stepped across the first traffic lanes to a pickup point for the courtesy van that would take him to the rental car office.  Thirty minutes later he was driving a year-old gray Chevy Malibu east on the 105 freeway, headed toward the park where the shooting had occurred.  He wanted to get his first on-site look today so he could think matters through tonight.

Jake walked slowly along the path, a short distance up the hill from the freeway.  He could see where the shooter would position himself the day after tomorrow and why it was such an effective location.  Reaching a shaded area with a couple of picnic tables, Jake sat and raised the small laser range finder.  One hundred and thirty-two yards the device told him.  And easy shot.  He didn’t have to be concerned that anyone would be suspicious of him. Nothing had happened here yet. 

Jake looked around at the area.  He could park fifty yards away.  A short walk would bring him to this location, which was elevated with respect to the hide the sniper would use, and somewhat concealed from the other position.  The only thing suspicious would be the time of day for someone to be here, but few would be around to notice.  He could setup and then watch from concealment behind one of the trees until the sniper arrived.  Then he could settle in on the bench, make the shot and leave.  Unlike the sniper, he wouldn’t be making a major disturbance and wouldn’t need to hurry.  The rifle he planned to use was suppressed, so the shot would go unnoticed out here in the open.  Since he would kill the sniper before he fired any rounds, there would be no other noise, and the body would be hidden in the brush where he had been preparing to shoot.  Jake suspected it would be hours before the body was discovered.  Someone would notice the bike, and that would lead them to the dead man.

Jake slipped the laser range finder into his pocket and stood.  He took a couple of pictures using the small camera he had brought along.  His cell phone was back in Reno.  He had a cheap throw-away he’d activated back in the hotel, but it didn’t have a camera.  Satisfied, he turned and walked back toward the car.

It worked exactly as he hoped.  He was in place an hour before the shooting had taken place.  He watched as the man rode up on the motorcycle, and carried a small case, not too unlike his own, into the enclosure.  Once the man had the rifle out and assembled, Jake took his position behind the LAR.  It was equipped with one of the new uppers he’d just sighted in a few weeks back.  He attached the small cage over the ejection port designed to capture the spent brass.  This would eliminate any need to search through the grass and brush for the used cases after he fired.  The killer had scanned the surrounding area when he arrived, missing Jake up the hill, and was now intent on setting up for his killing spree.  Jake placed the crosshairs just under the man’s armpit, having a nice side view.  Following a practiced discipline, he made the shot, and was rewarded with a solid hit.  The man went down and lay still.  Just to be sure Jake sent a second round into the head that was visible, ensuring the kill.

Quickly he turned the warm suppressor off the quick disconnect, stripped the suppressor from the barrel, then pulled the rifle apart.  The two halves went into the case, and then the magazine.  Jake clipped the case closed, and stood, checking to be sure there was nothing that would be of use to the police when they investigated the scene later.  With the clothes and thin gloves he was wearing he was unlikely to have left much evidence for them.  Also, this was a public spot, and any number of people used this spot everyday.  They weren’t going to get much.

Returning to the car, he put the case in the trunk, important here in California, and climbed into the driver’s seat.  He’d dump the upper later today, and replace it with the original barrel assembly that had come with the rifle.  Better to have a complete rifle than one missing a vital part that might cause someone to wonder.

Jake drove to his hotel, parking the car and taking the case up to his room.  He made the changes to the rifle, installing the factory original upper receiver.  He returned the complete rifle to the special case, and then went down to the garage, stowing the weapon in the BMW.  Finally Jake tossed the barrel he wished to discard, wrapped inside a black plastic trash bag along with an accumulation of bunched up newspapers, into one of the large dumpsters at the back of the hotel.  Then he walked up two levels to where the rental was parked and headed back to the rental office.  He turned the car in, made the airport loop, and was back in his room within an hour.  He showered, changing his hair color and selected other clothing, the items he’d worn placed in a plastic bag for disposal along the way, packed his bags, and used the television to complete a quick checkout.  Satisfied, he left the room and rode down the elevator and walked out of the hotel and into the garage where his BMW waited. 

Traffic was heavy as he headed out of town, although less so headed north as he was at the moment.  He would go north to Highway 5, then run up through California and over the pass by Truckee to loop back into Nevada.  That would keep him well away from the other side of Los Angeles where he’d killed the man a few hours earlier.

Jake was well past halfway home when he conceded to himself that he had a problem.  He didn’t feel bad about killing the sniper.  In fact, he felt a certain satisfaction.  He often had such feelings after completing a mission and knowing a large number of innocent people were going to have a chance to live as a result of his intervention.  His problem was the realization he wasn’t going to be able to stop what he was doing.  That meant a conflict with Karin was certain once again.  He knew her sensitivities from the last time he’d told her.  Perhaps he could use that knowledge to temper the realities of the situation.  Perhaps he could break it to her in stages and make her realize what the alternatives to his action were.  He was going to have to try, but he feared the outcome.  Somehow he knew it wasn’t going to go as smoothly as he’d like.  Suddenly he wasn’t as upbeat as he’d been since driving out of Los Angeles.

Special Agent Susan Carlson sighed as she stood by the scarred old picnic table and stared down the slight incline toward the clump of brush adjacent to the freeway overpass.  She was here with the Ontario police detective in charge of the case.  She had otherwise come alone.  She’d been raised in Southern California and had spent two tours for the FBI in the area and didn’t need anyone from the local office to show her around.  Besides, the local agent in charge who she would have normally been with was in court today. 

“You can see it was an easy shot,” the detective said, pointing toward where the body had been found.

Indeed it was.  A very easy shot for a man with a good rifle and the training to use it.  Less than one hundred and fifty yards Carlson estimated.  She was positive of the former since they already had a report on the rifle, and certain of the latter based on other cases where the same type of rifle had been employed, twice at considerably longer distances.  Those shots had been on target as well.  While there was no conclusive evidence, Carlson was certain this was another incident for their task force.

“He used a Rock River Arms LAR in .308 caliber,” the detective added as if reading her mind and presenting facts that Carlson already knew from the preliminary report she’d read on the plane out here.

“You recovered both bullets?” Carlson asked, playing the game while she worked through the crime scene.

“Both bullets that were shot at the victim,” the detective confirmed.  “We are assuming he didn’t fire any additional rounds.  One went into the tree behind the victim after passing through him, and the second was buried in the dirt under him.  It was straightforward to obtain the type of firearm. Our lab technician verified that both bullets came from the same weapon.”

From the same weapon, and from the same kind of weapon the man Carlson sought had used before, but not the identical weapon used for previous crimes.  Carlson’s own people back at the Bureau had already independently confirmed what the detective was telling her, but had also verified that the bullets had not come from the same barrel as the others they had in the evidence room.  That meant the shooter had either used another rifle of the same type, or equally likely simply replaced the barrel assembly after use to eliminate any chance of connecting the weapon to the crime.  The man was certainly careful about picking up any evidence before he left.