“The sniper is able to select his targets with care so that it will do the greatest possible damage to their morale and fighting ability.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
The van sat far enough from the house for him to observe without being observed. He had been careful and moved the truck every hour, driving around the block and parking in a different location. He hoped the white van and his nondescript work clothes would make him appear as an appliance repairman. The last thing he wanted was for some nosey neighbor to call the cops and report a suspicious vehicle parked in front of their house for a long time.
During the third hour of his vigil, she appeared. He had checked and double-checked the address because of all the targets, this was the most important. The woman was petite, with flaming red hair that told of her Irish heritage. She had a terrific figure for her age, which by now must be her early to mid-forties. She threw some stuff into the back seat, got in her car and drove away. He followed her north on Waltham Street. When they turned onto Route 2 to Boston, he sighed in relief. It was a major thoroughfare and there was always a great deal of traffic. He relaxed, ceased worrying that she would realize he was following and let the traffic serve as camouflage.
He kept the distance between him and her car constant and wondered if he should have brought his driver. It was risky doing both the shooting and the driving. Besides, it wouldn’t have hurt to have someone familiar with Boston traffic patterns. He blew through his lips. It was too late to worry about that. He would just have to make the best of the situation.
The woman left Route 2 at the Alewife Rotary and turned onto Fresh Pond Parkway, toward Memorial Drive, and crossed the Charles River toward Kenmore Square at the Harvard Bridge. Traffic began to slow due to the proximity of Fenway Park and he felt frustration and impatience creeping in. When she pulled into a gas station on Commonwealth Avenue, he exhaled in relief. She stopped alongside the pump closest to the street and got out. At least that worked in his favor. He spied an open area across the street and couldn’t believe how lucky he was. Rather than making an illegal U-turn, which would attract attention, he drove past. He turned at the next corner, sped up as much as he dared and then returned to Commonwealth Avenue. He hoped she was still at the station and that no one had taken the open parking spot across the street while he had circled the block.
His luck held—the slot was still vacant. He looked toward the gas station. She stood beside her car, pumping gas and ignoring her surroundings. She didn’t even glance up when he slid into the open space.
Commuters stood on the sidewalk, chatting loudly over the din of the city while waiting for their bus. One of the commuters tapped on the passenger door glass and shouted, “Hey, you dumb or something? This is a freakin’ bus stop, for crying out loud.” He knew the nosy interloper couldn’t see into the van and was thankful for the tinted windows. Still he knew he had little time, a bus could come along at any moment. He lowered the street-side window. The heavy flow of traffic passing between him and the target meant that his timing had to be precise. The shot had to be taken at the exact instant or he might hit a passing car, allowing his target to escape.
His rifle sat on the floor on the passenger side, propped against the seat with the muzzle up. He snatched it up and leaned back so the rifle’s short barrel remained within the confines of the vehicle. He quickly pulled the stock tight into his shoulder. He held the weapon firm and waited for his eye to acclimate itself to the scope’s magnification. It almost exaggerated everything too much. A gigantic gas pump moved across the crosshairs and then the hood of her car appeared. He stopped sweeping and shifted his aim slightly, centered on the passenger window of her car. He smiled when he saw that, rather than use her air conditioning, she had rolled down all of the car’s windows. The scope made her breasts seem huge, as if they were too large for the constraints imposed on them by the thin summer-weight T-shirt. Nice rack, he thought, too bad . . .
He waited until two cars, one in each direction, passed through the scope, blurring his sight picture. A horn blasted and he glanced at the outside mirror; a bus was pulling into the stop and the driver laid on the horn again. The bus driver honked a third time, holding it longer, and he ignored it, focusing on the reticules of the scope. The target was clear and centered in the crosshairs; he pulled the trigger. The blasting horn muted the rifle’s bark to all but the passengers waiting at the stop. He heard the interloper shout, “What the hell was that? It sounded like gunfire!”
Someone else said, “Gunfire? This ain’t the ’Bury . . . it’s Comm Ave. It was probably a backfire.”
The sniper glanced in the passenger-side mirror and saw a burnout with a ring in her nose pointing at his van. “I think it came from that van,” she said.
The sniper knew it was time to exit the area. The shot had been taken and now it was time to haul ass. He took a last look at the gas station, but did not see the target. However, he was not concerned and was certain that even if he hadn’t killed the target, his shot had scored. Throwing the rifle into the passenger seat, he pressed his foot down on the accelerator, suppressing his impulse to stomp hard on the gas pedal, making the tires scream, and attracting everyone’s attention. He pulled out of the bus stop and drove away, gradually increasing speed as he left the bus behind. He sped toward Brookline and glanced in the rearview mirror, where he saw the burnout standing beside the curb, gesturing to him. The sniper put his left arm out the window and raised it to the sky with the middle finger extended. He laughed. “Now, Mikey, maybe you’ll get the message.”
Houston and Anne left I-93 at the former Boston Garden—now the TD Garden—and headed toward Storrow Drive. Traffic was horrible.
“Should I hit the lights and siren?” Anne asked.
“No. I’m kinda enjoyin’ the ride. This case is getting to me.”
“How many times has Dysart called you today?” she asked.
“More than he’s called me in the last five years.”
“What have you told him?”
“What is there to say? We got crap so far.”
“Have you told him you talked to Jimmy O?”
“Hell, no. He’d go ballistic if he knew I was using Jimmy as a source.”
Anne’s cell phone rang. Since she was driving, Anne handed the phone to him. The caller ID listed the main number for BPD. He hit the speaker button. “Houston.”
Dysart’s voice said, “Mike? Why do you have Anne’s phone?”
“She’s driving.”
“Where are you guys?”
“Storrow Drive, just past the Museum of Science.”
“Good, you’re close. Get your asses over to Kendall Square . . . the son of a bitch might have hit again . . . ”
At times Houston believed Anne had been a cab driver in a previous life, because she handled city traffic better than anyone he knew. In spite of the late afternoon rush, she got to Commonwealth Avenue in less than ten minutes; a NASCAR driver couldn’t have completed a practice lap easier. Nevertheless, by the time they arrived at the scene of the sniper’s most recent kill, the crime scene unit was already on-site and several uniforms had the entrance to the self-service gas station blocked off.
Unable to get off the street without disturbing the scene, they double-parked beside one of the patrol cars. Anne and Houston hooked their badges to their belts as they approached the crime scene and stepped inside. The crime scene techs had finished most of their work and stood in a huddle about twenty feet away from a compact car that stood beside the outermost gas pumps. They were able to see that the victim was lying between the gas pumps and the Toyota Camry. Houston stared at the car—it was familiar. A woman’s handbag lay on the ground nearby and for some reason he was reluctant to approach the body. His heart pounded so hard that it hammered in his chest and his throat constricted, making it difficult to breathe. He overcame his inertia and walked to the black sedan. Houston squatted beside the body and immediately bolted to his feet, cursed and spun around until he faced the busy street.
He tried to hide his reactions from Anne, but was unsuccessful. She asked, “What’s going on, Mike? Do you know this woman?”
“Her name is Pamela.”
“That’s it? Pamela? Pamela what?”
“If she hasn’t changed back to her maiden name, her name is Pamela Houston.”