“To the enemy, who knows the real capabilities of a sniper, he is a very feared ghostly phantom who is never seen, and never heard until his well-aimed round cracks through their formation or explodes the head of their platoon commander or radio man.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
After leaving the Plaza, Anne and Houston stopped for lunch. There was a time when lunch had meant a couple of beers to Houston. But he had learned the hard way to be careful around booze. He looked across the table at Anne, toasted her with a frosty glass of lemonade and said, “I’m bushed. I must be getting old.”
Anne leaned forward and looked into his eyes. “Mike, when was your last physical?”
“What has that got to do with anything? Don’t start in on me, okay?”
“It’s not even one o’clock and you look like something the cat dragged in and the dog was afraid to drag back out.”
“Christ, Anne, I’m just tired, that’s all. I didn’t sleep worth a damn last night.”
She sat back, her delicate hands slowly turned her glass and she softened. “Fatigue is our greatest enemy—you know that. It causes us to fail to see what we should and to see what we shouldn’t and also increases our reaction time.”
“I’ve operated under those conditions most of my life . . . I’ll make it.”
“I understand all that,” Anne said. “It’s just that you’re my best friend and I worry about you.”
“We have come a long way together, haven’t we?”
She smiled. “Mike, you’ve come a lot further than I have.”
“Maybe so, but without you I don’t think I’d have survived the trip. How long have we been partners now?”
“Over five years.”
“I was a mess back then,” Houston said.
“Well, you had just gotten over a very traumatic divorce.”
“There’s something that I have to confess to you.”
“Oh?”
“If I didn’t agree to taking a partner—namely you—Dysart was about to shit-can me for being half-drunk all the time.”
“I don’t think they’d throw you off the force that easily. After all, you did have the highest rate of cleared cases.”
“Oh, he wasn’t going to throw me out . . . just make me a parking meter attendant.”
Anne smiled.
“What?”
“I just got a mental picture of Mike Houston, meter maid.”
He too smiled. “Yeah, with my legs, I’d look like hell in a skirt.”
The sniper stood back in the shadows of the door and studied Houston and the woman. They were at ease, sitting like a couple of love-struck teenagers. He glanced at his watch and wondered if he had overestimated Houston. How could he be so stupid as to sit at a table next to a window where they were perfect targets? But there was time for Houston later; first he had another mission to complete. He saluted. “Be seein’ yah, Mike.”
Houston and Anne stood on the sidewalk, basking in the midday sun. Houston stretched. “Every time I eat lunch I get like a bear and want to hibernate.”
Anne smiled at him. “So where do we go now?”
“We need to check out the victims’ families.”
“I’m not looking forward to that,” Anne said, her eyes locked forward as she drove.
“Me neither. Still, it has to be done.”
“Who should we see first?” Anne asked.
“Stephanie Leopold’s family.”
“Okay, but why is she first? She lives in Reading, the furthest away of all the vics.”
“No particular reason. I thought I’d relax and take a ride while I let my lunch settle.”
“Okay, you’re the lead detective.”
Anne drove onto I-93 and headed north to the junction of I-95/Route 128. Since they were heading out of the city and it was a couple of hours before afternoon rush hour, traffic was light and in no time, they turned off the expressway and onto Route 28. Mike had been silent for most of the drive. But when Anne stopped at a red light, he said, “One of DeSalvo’s vics lived here.”
“Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler?”
“That’s what’s generally believed. Lately there’ve been questions raised. I know several people who think he wasn’t capable of that level of violence or smart enough to elude capture as long as he did.”
“But he confessed,” Anne said. Her demeanor and tone said that was all the evidence of his guilt she needed.
“Wouldn’t be the first time some mentally defective fool, looking for attention, fessed up to something he didn’t do.”
“But as soon as he was caught, the killings stopped.”
Houston shrugged. “Makes you think, doesn’t it? A perp smart enough to elude capture for two years is certainly smart enough either to stop or change his or her MO once the cops thought they had their perp. It’s kind of like this case.”
“How is it like this case?”
“Both are high profile and generate a lot of political heat.”
Anne stared through the windshield, studying the slow-moving traffic ahead. “You know what scares me the most?”
“That too, but what scares me most is that there are times when I think they were wrong when they told me you weren’t the sharpest crayon in the box.”
Charles Leopold was an impressive man. He stood a couple of inches over six feet and his biceps rippled under the sleeves of the form-fitting golf shirt he wore. When Houston and Anne identified themselves, he stepped back and allowed them entrance to the living room. It was immediately evident that a woman had decorated the house. The room was tasteful and everything seemed to be carefully placed so each item complemented the others.
“Your home is nice,” Anne commented.
“Thank you, but I can’t take the credit. My wife . . . ” His eyes became shiny with tears. “ . . . Stephanie did the décor. She had a talent for interior decorating. I don’t know why she didn’t pursue it as a career . . . ” He took a deep breath and motioned toward a couple of easy chairs. “Please, sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“I’m fine,” Houston answered.
Leopold turned his head slightly and looked at Anne.
“I’m fine too.”
Houston and Anne glanced at each other, looking for a cue as to who should start the questioning. Knowing Anne’s skill with people, especially bereaved people, he gave a slight nod to her.
“Mr. Leopold, I’d like express the Boston Police Department’s deepest sympathy for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Leopold’s lips formed a straight line and his eyes narrowed. “All I want the Boston Police Department to do is catch the son of a bitch who murdered my wife . . . ”
“That’s why we’re here. Can you think of any reason why someone might want to target Stephanie?”
“Not one. Hell, she was a grammar school teacher, third grade. All the students loved her. She was that type of teacher . . . you know the one that all the kids cluster around during recess.”
“Why was your wife in Boston that day?” Houston asked.
“She loved going into the city. On warm summer days, she liked nothing better than to walk on the Common. School starts in a couple of weeks and she thought that this might be her last chance to do it.” The irony of the statement hit him and he swallowed hard, choking back a sob.
Houston and Anne said nothing. The last thing the grieving husband wanted to hear was platitudes.
“When can I have her body?” Leopold’s eyes started tearing again, leaving streaks on his cheeks. “I have . . . arrangements to make.”
“Unfortunately,” Houston answered, “we don’t know. The medical examiner has control of the . . . your wife. But, I’m sure they won’t keep her long.” He wondered how Leopold would react if he knew of the indignities his wife’s body had probably received on the medical examiner’s table. There is no nice way to perform an autopsy. He recalled the image of her lying in the flowers with her skirt hiked up, exposing her thighs and underwear. He was thankful he had intervened and hoped that if any photographers had gotten a picture of her in that state that they would refrain from ever releasing or publishing it.
The silence became oppressive. When Anne’s cell phone vibrated, Houston was grateful for the interruption. He remained stoic as she answered the phone and listened for several seconds. He knew something had happened when she suddenly stood and said, “I’m sorry we had to disturb you, Mr. Leopold.” They shook the grieving man’s hand in turn and left him standing in the middle of his immaculate living room, looking like an overgrown child.
Once they were in their car, Houston said, “That was a pretty abrupt end in there.”
“That was Dysart. He wants to see us.”