[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure Page 11

  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 magazine. 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, producing the 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, which would prevent it from moving during the shot. Doing so would require the lock to be disengaged, the slide to be worked by hand, and the lock then to be re-engaged between each shot. They’d decided it would be 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.

  The state of Indiana holds 23,069 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 15,474 are repeat offenders.

  —FOURTEEN—

  “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 had taken 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 to just dive in and try to keep up.

  “Jack’s talking to your boss. Not my plane; it belongs to the Deputy Director. You have the car here?”

  “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 they’d been 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 to be 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 shooting in Florida. 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.” They 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. You 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. 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 that connects 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 this. The cars, nobody had even brought this up before. Could this have something to do with it? She doubted it, but it was worth mentioning to Jack.

  “Who knows?” She sighed. “Should we go pitch in and make sure the kids are playing nice together?”

  “You always did like to get dirty.” Stacie tossed her a box of gloves. “Bodies or car?”

  “Bodies.”

  • • •

  Sam rubbed his freshly shaven jaw as he drove steadily west at the posted limit. It had been some time since he had been in the open desert, and he’d missed it. He was looking for a place to accomplish a few things, things which were necessary before his next destination. With hundreds of miles of desert around, he just needed the right spot and a little privacy. He slowed to check out the next dirt road, just a rut through the desert, leading off north-west into hilly terrain. It was the fourth such road he had encountered. This one showed no recent tracks. The online weather website had reported no rain in the area for weeks—a good sign this might be it. Sam checked his rearview for any cars that might see him pull off. Negative; he was the only car in sight.

  The road led fairly straight away from the highway for about two miles, before he entered some hills and it began to wind and deteriorate. The rental Jeep did just fine in the sand, spinning the tires only once. Sam kept an eye on his surroundings. No sign of motorcycles or other off-road toys. He was quite some distance away from the nearest town. He hoped people
did not come out this far to play. The road meandered for another three miles, before ending in a washout. The two-foot drop into the soft sand persuaded him that he could go no farther. He exited the Jeep to look around.

  It was in sort of a natural amphitheater: hills on three sides and miles of desert off to the north out the open end. Sam consulted his map and pulled out his Garmin GPS, a gift from his wife two years ago. The Garmin confirmed what he already knew: he was in the middle of nowhere. At least with the GPS he knew exactly where in the middle he was. Sam looked around and smiled. It was not only perfect for what he needed, but it was also gorgeous. Sam reached into the backseat of the Jeep and pulled out his camelback, a hat, and some Chapstick. He slathered on some sunblock for Dr. Maher before grabbing his sunglasses. After locking the Jeep behind him, he set off in the direction he had come, skirting the road by fifty meters or so. He watched for snakes while examining the brush and cactus.

  After a mile, he left the road and began climbing the hillside. Proceeding at a slow pace, keeping his head up and ears tuned to his surroundings, he planned to circle the area to rule out any company that might be drawn to the noise. As he moved, his training automatically kicked in, and he was confident that he would see or hear anyone before they heard him. Sam paused long enough to test his climbing skills on a boulder. To get a better view, he told himself.

  On the second ridge, he stopped for a few minutes to watch a lizard watch him. The outdoors had been Sam’s element in his younger days, so he was enjoying this. He walked slowly, taking his time, pausing at regular intervals to look and listen. As he topped the last ridge, a hawk fell out of the sky after some prey. Sam checked through the binoculars, but the predator was out of sight in the brush.

  “At least I’m not the only one out here,” Sam voiced.

  After an hour, Sam was convinced this was the place. He opened the back of the Jeep and pulled out the pistol first. A Browning BDM 9mm—same as he had at home, only this one had the marks of a file on the slide and frame. Paul had managed to find three fifteen-round magazines, somewhere; they were more expensive these days, thanks to President Clinton, but no harder to find, really. Sam loaded one and tucked the automatic into the small of his back with one practiced fluid motion.

  Next, he pulled out some targets and a couple of three-foot stakes. He placed the stakes about ten feet apart and pounded them in with a good-sized rock. The string was strung taut between the stakes, and the targets hung. Zeroing targets. The rifles were new to him, and he needed to get acquainted with them. Both were his favorite Remington 700 in .308 caliber with 3x9 variable scopes. One was in a satin finish, which might reflect light, but this couldn’t be helped according to Paul. That shouldn’t matter at the next stop, as long as it was accurate enough. The next shot was a long one, and Sam would need a good weapon and all his skill to pull it off. He pocketed a box of rounds and walked into the sun for fifty meters. He sipped from the camelback as he surveyed the makeshift rifle range. A far cry from the thousand-meter range at Ft. Bragg, but it would do. He pulled three foot-long sticks out of the bag, and tied them together two inches from the end with more string. He then spread the other ends out and planted them in the ground to serve as a rest. The binoculars went on the ground next to the tripod. Sam estimated he was about five feet higher than his target. One last look up the road, and he dropped into a prone position with the first rifle. He squeezed off three rounds and checked his target. Low and left. After counting the squares, he adjusted the scope. Three more rounds. Level and left. Another adjustment. Three more, and all were in the center-black. A nice dime size group in a pyramid shape.

  “Like riding a bike.” Sam smiled to himself.

  He carefully set the rifle aside, rose, and picked up all his brass. He then checked the road again: all clear. Back on his belly with the satin rifle. Three rounds, and Sam knew there was a problem. While his group was tight with the first rifle, it was bigger with this one: nickel-size, rather than dime. He adjusted the scope to bring him up and fired another group. The adjustment had him level and off to the right as he wanted, but the group was still large. Perhaps the barrel was not bedded properly, or the rifle had suffered a fall? He fired his last group and outlined the V-ring.

  Sam was disappointed. The rifle was good for anything under five-hundred meters, but he would not trust it beyond that. It might improve if he had some match-grade ammunition, but this was a luxury which he did not have.

  He rose and checked the crowning of the barrel: looked okay to him. He replaced the rifle back in its case and picked up all his brass. The matte rifle and the tripod were then carried to the one-hundred-meter mark. He again set himself up as before and fired three groups of three at his remaining targets. When he was done, he had a dime size group about one inch above the V-ring on all targets. This rifle was ready. He proceeded to pick up all his brass and erase any signs of his presence from the ground.

  On returning to the Jeep, he carefully wiped down and packed the rifles in their cases. All the brass was placed in a shopping bag. There was one target left. Sam took up a standing position ten meters away, and placed a series of double-taps into the target till the slide locked back. Chest-Head, Chest-Head. The pistol was fine, a little heavier trigger-pull than his own at home, but not enough to throw him off. He didn’t plan on using it anyway. If he needed it in the coming days, it meant he had made a mistake. Sam was not one to make mistakes, but he knew it was better to be prepared. His old scoutmaster, Mr. Rutz, would be proud, he thought.

  Twenty minutes later, Sam started the Jeep. The brass, targets, string, and stakes, were all on the seat next to him, along with a folding shovel. He had noticed a good place to bury them on the walk up the road. He had about four hours of daylight left, but he still waited for a snake to clear his path before he started out.

  The state of Iowa holds 8,546 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 5,725 are repeat offenders.

  —FIFTEEN—

  His name was Leonard Ping. Of all the names that had made the list, his had never been far from the top. Ping was a serial killer, charged with twelve murders that had taken place over nineteen years ago. How he had yet to be found guilty of any of them made Sam’s blood boil. He was currently awaiting trial in Orange County, California, as he had been for the past seven years. There was no real end in sight.

  The envelope Sam had in his suitcase was thick with articles and clippings covering Ping’s years of thwarting the judicial system. Paul had wanted to just include the highlights, but Sam had insisted on including it all to show the sheer volume and expanse the system had allowed itself to be manipulated by this murderer of children. Sam had remembered being disgusted years ago when he had first heard of the case. The years of waiting must have been torture for the families.

  Ping, born of a Hong Kong businessman and an American interpreter, had been raised in a strict household and wanted for little. His father had ruled with an iron hand, and Ping frequently suffered from the former’s lack of patience. After high school, he had escaped his family’s home in San Francisco and attended the University of Georgia to study biology. Pets had been his only friends growing up, and Ping thought he might become a veterinarian. But the south had not been kind to him. Small in stature and lacking any assertiveness, he was a loner. His grades dropped and he was forced to drop out. Deeming him a failure and embarrassment to the family, his father had refused to allow him home, so Ping had found himself cut off and alone. With few options, Ping had joined the Army, and was assigned to an infantry division as a cook. The blatant deference to authority did not mesh with Ping’s developing rebellious nature, and he was often the subject of discipline from his superiors. Within a year, Ping had been charged, along with two other misfit soldiers, for raiding a motor pool. Rather than face a court-martial, he fled to California. His mother had supported him for some time until his father discovered it and cut off the funds. At this point, Ping turned to growing and dealing d
rugs at the small cabin he had acquired in the mountains of northern California. Here, Ping drew into himself and had less and less contact with the outside world. He began digging tunnels and rooms from the basement of the cabin, mostly to grow marijuana. Except for one room.

  In this room, Ping had brought his victims: mostly individual women, but sometimes whole families. He took advantage of the opportunities that presented, and spent as little time as possible away from his cabin. The women he used for sex, often videotaping the encounter. Some lasted for weeks, some for less than a day. Already a prolific digger, Ping buried the bodies of his victims in the hills surrounding the cabin. Ping did not trust his own memory as to the location of the numerous sites, and had wanted to avoid digging twice, so he kept a detailed map. The children were simply buried with the parents. This went on for more than two years.

  A pair of hikers and their dog were credited for ending the killings. When the dog brought them a shoe with a decomposing foot still inside, the hikers had reported it to the police, who sent officers to investigate. Ping had long since purchased a police scanner, and was gone hours before the police arrived. Taking a large amount of cash and a hidden motorcycle, he fled to Canada. Eight months later he was jailed in Calgary for theft. Refusing to cooperate with Canadian authorities had resulted in his prints being sent to the United States’ data base. Warrants had been issued for Ping on twelve counts of murder and numerous drug charges. In the Canadian prison, Ping’s intelligence began to show. If he had been charged with just the drug offenses, extradition would have been swift. However, the Canadian Government is reluctant to extradite people if there is a possibility they will be considered for the death penalty.