Corrector (6 page)

“You haven’t found anything that suggests the victim was shot by someone he was working with.  From your reports it appears very much like he was planning an attack on the local High School.  Perhaps he was planning the attack with someone else and they had a falling out which lead to the killing.” 

Agent Dickens listened while Carlson asked questions.  These were all issues that had been raised before, but Susan hadn’t been here to participate in the discussions directly, so the topics would need to be reviewed again.

Vince shook his head indicating his answer.  “Nothing.  The materials we found on his computer suggest that Watkins was planning on his own.  The planning notes all pointed to an assault carried out by a single gunman.  His wife and mother-in-law have both indicated he was locked up alone at the house when he wasn’t at work.  They couldn’t see how he was working with anyone else.  It would have had to be over the net, and his email records show almost no contacts for the past month.”

“What about the wife and mother-in-law?” Agent Carlson asked.  “They were both present at the time of the killing.  Did either of them see or hear anything?  Were either surprised by the fact Watkins was planning to attack the school?”

Detective Johnson spoke up before Vince Hardy could respond.  “The mother-in-law was awake and heard the shots.  She didn’t know what they were at the time, but when she got up and went into the kitchen she realized what the sounds must have been.  The wife was sleeping and heard nothing.  We conclude based on the observations, or lack of them in the case of the wife, that the gun used must have been silenced.”

“Suppressed,” Agent Carlson corrected.

Vince Hardy nodded at the correction.  “Both women indicated that Watkins had been acting oddly the past few months,” Detective Hardy explained.  “The wife indicated she and her husband had been having problems, which was why her mother had flown in from New York to stay with them.  Her mother had been pressing her to move out and file for divorce.  Both indicated that Watkins was troubled by something, but wouldn’t talk with them and had become increasingly private and withdrawn.  The marriage was basically over, but the wife hadn’t figured out what action she wanted to take.  I think Watkins scared her a bit.”

“What about his guns?” Carlson asked.

“Apparently he’d always had a few guns,” Detective Johnson explained.  “Mostly handguns though.  The wife had never seen the semi-automatic rifle that was found near his body.  There are no records of him buying it, and thus far we have no idea where he acquired it.  The sales records show it was part of a shipment that was taken at a store robbery a number of years ago in California.”

“The magazines and ammunition?”

“Most likely bought locally.  Both are available at any gun store in town.  There are no records of any Internet sales to him.  No one at any of the local stores remembers him, but he may have bought the items over time and it’s unlikely one of the clerks would recall.  The purchases are not uncommon.  He might have also purchased them well out of the local area.  There are a lot of stores that sell this kind of thing.”

“Let’s get back to the killer rather than the victim,” Carlson directed.  “The shooter appears to have been waiting inside the house when Watkins came into the kitchen where he was surprised.  There he was shot four times with a suppressed handgun.”

“A 9mm Sig-Sauer,” Detective Hardy explained.  “We recovered all four slugs and have been able to identify the weapon used.  The ammunition was Federal 147 grain hollow-points.  The heavier bullet with its reduced velocity is known to be more easily silenced than the more common loads,” he added, something Carlson already was aware of.

“Is that the same as your other cases?” Brooke Johnson asked.

“Some, not all,” Carlson replied.  “We’ve had a couple of deaths where a Sig was used.  There have also been a couple where a rifle was the weapon to kill, and one instance where the victim was drowned.  Of course, we can’t be positive that all of these are related or that the same man did the killing.  There are reasons to believe they are linked.  Of course, there might be other cases we haven’t realized are related because something is different and we don’t see the connection.  So far we have eight suspect cases.”

Carlson looked at Hardy.  “None of the brass was recovered?”

“None,” Hardy admitted.  “The killer was meticulous in cleaning up after the shooting.  He appears to have been very studied and calm about the killing which suggests he thought it out in advance and might have done this before.  He knew how to minimize any useful evidence.”

“Your forensics people didn’t find anything either from what I’ve been told?”

“Not very much,” Hardy admitted.  “They think the killer wore gloves, probably the thin surgeon type, and probably some kind of outer garment that was smooth and didn’t shed fibers.  He appears to have waited in a chair by the table, based on its position and the re-creation of where the shots came from.  The only thing they found was a partial dusty footprint near the door.  The back porch was dirty, and he came in that way.”

“What kind of print?”

“It appears to be a very common Nu-Balance walking boot.  New, by the way, based on the sharpness of the tread pattern.  We have pictures of the pattern and the specific shoe type.”

Carlson shook her head.  “I doubt it will matter,” she said.

Detective Hardy looked at Carlson for an explanation. 

“Nothing said today has changed my mind about this killing.  Agent Dickens has kept me informed, and I’m convinced your killer is the same man who has done this kind of thing in a number of cities around the country over the past several years.  We have a couple of instances where footprints have been recovered.  They are always new shoes, and each time a different brand.  I’m certain the shoes are discarded after the killing.  It would surprise me greatly if the discovery would be of any use to us.”

“That’s why you asked us to check for rental cars,” Detective Johnson said.

“That’s right,” Carlson confirmed.  “At one scene a witness saw a car leaving the scene.  The witness noticed the rental car sticker, but we were never able to follow the clue up successfully.  Do you have any idea how many cars are rented in a major city like Phoenix every day?  Every car that was out in that case was tracked down along with the renter’s identities.  All but three cards checked out.  Two of those were phony, and one was a dead end.  The card was valid, but the accounts associated with paying it lead nowhere.  Our best people couldn’t work through the offshore accounts that hid the owner.  That name and credit card has never reappeared in the system, but we have looked for it.  There is a watch against it reappearing.  We think the person using it was aware he might have been seen and may have dropped the card and switched to another.  While we can’t chase down every card used, we have been gathering records each time something like this happens, looking for a possible match.”

Brooke Johnson nodded, understanding.  “The rental companies have all promised to provide us with a list of cards used for a week on either side of the shooting from all of the their local agencies.  So far, only Hertz has come through.”

“Keep on them,” Carlson insisted.  “I suspect it is going to be something like the card that gives us the clue we need.”

“There was nothing at the airport that could be connected?” Detective Hardy asked.  “Perhaps tickets to somewhere paid with the same card?”

“Nothing, and a great deal of effort has been expended checking,” Carlson explained.  “Whoever this guy is, assuming we are dealing with the same individual here, he travels on tickets purchased under a different name.  There are simply too many passengers at the major airports to be able to track him without some kind of link.”

Carlson probed the police on several other aspects of the case before he and Agent Dickens took their leave.  She hadn’t expected much from the meeting and had learned nothing that her fellow agent hadn’t already passed on to her earlier, but felt it necessary to personally follow-up anyway.  She was certain this case was related to the others.  She could sense it.  She couldn’t point to anything other than the fact the dead man was obviously planning something dramatic and horrible.  That seemed to be the common denominator in all of the cases he had been following.  What Carlson wanted to know was how their suspect had known what the dead men were apparently planning and how he’d known when to act.  Susan Carlson suspected a significant number of innocent people owed their lives to whomever the person was, but it wasn’t the way this was supposed to work.  If the man had information, he should be contacting the authorities and allowing them to act, not taking matters into his own hands.  He had no right to be the judge and jury even against the kind of men the people he was killing appeared to be.  Carlson looked forward to having that discussion with the man one of these days.

Jake’s right foot slid on the tiny rocks and then slipped out from under him, almost dumping him on his ass as he stepped along the top of the smooth granite rock that led down to the rushing water.  The small, loose, and crumbled bits of rock resting on the smooth surface of the larger stone could be treacherous if one wasn’t careful.  He regained his balance and stepped more cautiously as he continued toward the water, moving more confidently after he was able to jump back onto the soft ground padded by a thick cushion of pine needles.  His clothes were still soaked from the ascent up the misty trail.  Jake could see the clouds of mist rising from below when he looked toward the roar that represented the water going over the edge and crashing to the valley far below a short distance farther down the river.  The waterfall was especially full this June.  When they had exited the trail and made their way to the head of Vernal Falls he had been able to see just how full.  The steel pipe fence that was set into the flat expanse of granite near the lip of the falls to keep people back from the rushing river, was well in the flow of the water.  Over three-fourths of the steel fence was under water this morning, and the river extended back more than ten feet from where one was usually able to stand and watch or photograph the water as it plunged over the cliff to fall to the pool far below.

Several dozen people were gathered on the flat expanse of smooth granite that surrounded the top of the waterfall, most of whom sitting or lying on the sun warmed stone in an attempt to dry out.  Everyone was drenched from the climb, which had been like walking through an especially cold rain.  The mist produced as the rushing water impacted the huge boulders below rose and condensed on the trail and the sides of the mountain.  The result was a hundred wet stone steps, already troublesome because each was higher than a standard step, but now they were wet as well, and a trail that was more river and puddle than pathway.  The last one hundred feet where one climbed alongside the hill with a steel and wire barrier a few feet away to keep one from going over the edge was a miniature river.  Everyone’s shoes were soaked through with the cold water.  Jake’s were no exception and his Nikes still squished as he moved along the semi-present path down to the water a couple of hundred feet upriver from the waterfall.  The Emerald Pool seemed almost calm compared to the cascade rushing down the “slide” into the small lake and the churning mass that bounced away through the rocks headed toward the drop-off.  His two friends were still behind him, resting on the rocks like everyone else after the climb.  They still didn’t understand why he had changed his mind and elected to take this route.  They had talked about turning off onto the John Muir trail several miles earlier for their climb up to Little Yosemite Valley, and then on to Lake Mead where they planned to camp.  No Half Dome this trip.  They had all done this often enough and Half Dome was too crowded and no longer a fun place to camp. 

Zackery Knight and Jake had been friends since elementary school when they had met in the third grade, and had been hiking buddies since they had been old enough to venture into the woods without their parents.  It had been Zack who had suggested the weekend outing, and Jake had been quick to agree.  He needed to get away and think.  Zack’s wife Cheryl was out of town for the week, off in Idaho to stay with her sister who was about to deliver her third child. 

Also along today was Nathan Bloomfield.  Nate, who was three years younger, had hiked with them once before.  He was more Jake’s friend than Zack’s.  Nate was a fellow shooter, and Jake had become friends with him during their frequent shoots at the club out near Pyramid Lake back in Nevada.  Nate was one hell of a shot, and was nearly always the winner of their IPSC shoots. He had taught Jake a few things, and helped him order his competition .38 Super.

Jake continued moving toward the water, his eyes focused on the movement he had seen a short time ago.  Then he moved past the tree and could see the two boys, ten and twelve, wading into the water at the edge of the overly full pond.  The water was relatively calm here, but the bed was smooth flat granite that was now wet and extremely slippery.  A few feet out from the shore one could see the eddies from a strong current mostly hidden by the sudden depth of the water.

“Get the hell out of there!” Jake yelled sharply as he hurried toward the water.  It had taken longer than he had anticipated to make his way from where he’d been watching and drying in the sun with his friends.  The two boys were already into the water up to their knees and trying to dare each other to wade out farther.  The older boy, the one with unruly red hair looked up at him in surprise.