Val had taken over a dozen criminology courses at UConn, plus eight weeks of intense training in the police academy. She’d also observed multiple crime scenes in her year-plus as a Clayton police officer. Nothing prepared her for the chaos that greeted her at the Safe Haven Family Planning Clinic.
The first units responding had cordoned off the surrounding area with yellow police tape, posting uniformed officers at key points around the perimeter. The lead detective on the case, a rotund white man in a dark suit with thin, salt-and-pepper hair and the gray pallor of a lifelong smoker, had established a single point of entry to the scene. Val hadn’t met him in person before, but recalled he worked in Homicide.
After a moment, his name came to her: Ed “Tackle Box” Simpson. He’d earned the nickname because he always brought an extensive set of investigative tools with him to every crime scene in an oversized blue plastic case favored by anglers—his own favorite hobby, according to rumor. By reputation, he was methodical, impatient, by-the-book, cruel with his humor, and suffered an unimpressive forty percent closure rate on his murder cases. The running joke was that Simpson brought every tool imaginable to his crime scenes, except the most important one: a working brain. One of those guys Val put in the “can’t wait until they age out and retire” category to make room for fresh blood like Jan Morgenstern…and Val.
Despite his age and size, Tackle Box appeared energized and authoritative. He strutted around the parking lot inside the yellow tape, barking orders and shouting out questions to any other cop that ventured into his field of view. “Move those people away from the perimeter!” he yelled to one uniformed officer. “Where’s my forensics team? You! Get Ballistics on the line. I need some God damned help down here!”
He turned to Val when she approached the entry point and snapped his fingers at her. “Who the fuck are you? Never mind, get over there and help with crowd control. I need these people out of here. We should move these barriers back ten feet before they contaminate my friggin’ crime scene!”
“I’m Officer Valorie Dawes, WAVE Squad,” Val said, stammering. “My boss, Sergeant Petroni, said I was to help with collection and documentation of evidence.”
“Covered by my Evidence Collection Unit,” he said. “Now do as you’re told.” He shook his head and stomped away, muttering under his breath about “God damned rookies thinking they run the place.”
“Dawes! Help me out over here!”
Val turned toward the familiar voice and grinned. A guy in uniform bearing sergeant’s stripes waved at her. A large man, standing beside a gurney near the back of an ambulance. Her former supervisor at Liberty Heights Precinct, Travis Blake.
“Travis!” She broke into a grin and hurried over to help.
To call Travis large was akin to calling the Empire State Building tall. Travis was a heap of a man, expansive in all proportions. His body resembled a whiskey barrel, with arms and legs like an elephant, and ham-like fists. Even his eyes and nose were large. His gray eyes matched the curly swatch cropped close to his watermelon-sized head. Had he not become a cop, Travis could have played defensive tackle on a pro football team.
A white woman with shoulder-length brown curls lay on the bed of a gurney, her wrinkled face ashen, a bloody bandage wrapped around one leg. Two paramedics on one side of the gurney, across from Travis, preparing to raise her into the ambulance. Val stood next to Travis, hands clenched on the grip bars, and helped lift.
Sort of. She’d barely touched the gurney when it soared upward into the back of the ambulance. All she did was provide a bit of balance.
The paramedics slammed the vehicle’s door shut and gave them a thumbs-up in thanks, then drove away, sirens blaring. “Hope she makes it,” Travis said. “She lost a lot of blood for someone they didn’t think was in much danger. Hey, welcome to Hell. What a freakin’ nightmare!”
“Good to see you, too, Sarge,” she said. “What do we know about the situation here?”
Travis winced and rubbed his chin. “Four victims, one dead at the scene—a pregnant woman, for Christ’s sake! Another one critical, also with a bun in the oven. The woman we just loaded in was an innocent bystander of sorts. Pamphleteer or protester or something. And a clinic doctor, an older guy, status unknown. Freaking madman!”
“Any chance of survival for the two fetuses?” Val cringed. She suspected not, and Travis’s grim expression confirmed it.
“They were both in the first trimester,” he said. “What kind of freak shoots a pregnant woman?”
“You said it—a freak. Any idea of where he shot from?” Val scanned the area, noticing several possible perches for a gunman.
Travis shook his head. “The forensics dudes will sort that out. Angle of entry of the projectiles, that type of thing. Nobody saw anything. At least, nobody’s stepped forward.”
Val scanned the pavement in front of the building, noting the chalk outlines of the shooter’s victims. She strolled over, with Travis following close behind, and examined the markings on the ground. A spray pattern of blood emanated from each victim’s landing spot. The tech team would wash that away after Forensics finished up. She also spied a bullet hole near the bottom of the building’s brick wall.
Recalling the training she’d half-daydreamed through that morning, she circled between the bullet hole and the chalk outlines, noting their relative positions. She ran a few rough geometric calculations in her head and gazed across the street. A building about ten stories tall towered above the four- to six-story structures on either side. A low metal railing bordered the perimeter of the building’s flat roof, which was about the right height to produce the angles of the shots at the scene.
She pointed. “There. On that rooftop.”
“The tech services building?” Travis stood next to Val and eyed the angles himself. “That makes sense. Let’s get Simpson in on this.”
“Get Simpson in on what?” The senior detective rumbled over, distrust written all over his leathery face.
“Dawes has an interesting theory about where our secondary crime scene is.” Travis pointed to the rooftop. “The tech building. I agree. We should check it out.”
“Nah,” Simpson said. “No way they’d bother going up there. Too much risk of getting caught on the way down. They’d prefer a lower perch, an easier getaway.”
“Where do you think, then?” Travis asked, his tone curious.
“Bank building, right across the street,” Simpson said. “Probably hung out in a vacant unit on the fourth or fifth floor. Superior lighting, more direct angle, simpler getaway. I already sent officers over to search it. Anyway, we’ll know more once the Firearms Unit gets here. If they ever do. Now stay in your damned lane and do what I asked you. Get those people off my crime scene. They’re probably dropping DNA and fibers and God-knows-what all over the friggin’ place.” He marched off, straight at a young family, too busy gawking to notice their toddlers crawling under the yellow tape. “Get back! Come on, this is a damned murder investigation!”
Val and Travis exchanged glances and stepped further away from Simpson, speaking in low voices.
“What do you think?” Travis said. “Would old Tackle Box miss us if we went technology shopping?”
“Only if the rubberneckers give him five minutes’ peace,” Val said. “Let’s go.”
Val and Travis ducked under the crime scene tape and slipped down to the corner, crossed at the light, and blended in with the crowd of pedestrians gawking as they strolled down the opposite sidewalk. They entered the main lobby of the tech services building and flashed their badges at the bored security guard, a woman in her fifties sitting behind a desk covered with computer monitors.
“We need access to your roof,” Travis said. “Our suspect may have used your space for a bit.”
“I ain’t seen no-one up there all morning,” the guard said, nodding at her nearest computer screen.
“Is it monitored continuously?” Travis asked.
The guard nodded.
“Recorded?”
Another nod.
Travis rapped the counter with his palm. His wedding ring smacked the granite surface, startling the guard. “Good. I’ll need a copy of those tapes. For now, show us to your service elevator, please.”
The woman looked doubtful. “I need to check with my boss.” She picked up the phone.
“Look, we’re not investigating you,” Travis said. “We’re trying to retrieve evidence before it’s destroyed by the elements, or whatever. Come on, give me a break, will ya? There’s a killer on the loose. Don’t you want us to find him before he comes back?”
The woman’s eyes widened and she punched a few keys on her keyboard. “Use the elevator farthest back on the left. Use the ‘S’ button—for ‘Service.’ I’ve unlocked it for you.”
Travis headed toward the opening doors before the woman finished speaking.
“Thanks so much!” Val called to the guard over her shoulder, following Travis.
The elevator opened on the tenth floor outside the gleaming clear-glass entryway to the offices of a regional internet services provider. That occupied about half the floor, the side facing the river—and the shooting site. A hallway ran the length of the building, parallel to the street. A series of smaller suites, utility rooms, and a pair of restrooms dotted the opposite wall. The far end had two beige metal doors, one marked with a red “Emergency Exit Only” sign and the unmistakable symbol of a stairway.
“Should we ask them if they saw anything?” Val gestured toward the internet company’s office.
“Later,” Travis said. “Let’s find the roof.” They headed toward the stairwell entrance. The adjacent door’s lettering read, “Roof Access—Authorized Personnel Only.”
“I hereby authorize you to access the roof,” Travis said with a grin.
“I authorize you back.” Val tried the door. Locked.
“Step aside.” Travis looked both ways, then produced a lock pick set from out of nowhere and inserted the pins into the cylinder on the handle. Fifteen seconds later, the door eased open.
“Ten for ten,” Travis said.
“I gotta get me one of those,” Val said. “But wait—don’t we need a warrant?”
Travis shrugged. “With all that wind outside? Exigent risk. Evidence is blowing away as we speak.”
“Ah. Wait, there wasn’t any w—”
“Besides, the guard gave us permission, remember?” Travis pushed through the entryway and hustled up the stairs—two L-shaped flights, with a landing halfway up. Val followed, taking the stairs two at a time and passing him with ease. At the top, another heavy metal door waited, this one with a push-bar latch. She elbowed open the door and held it for Travis.
The roof looked as expected: flat, with a smooth, black tar surface. An eight-foot stack towered up from the center, a caged air conditioning unit blowing hot air straight at them. Exhaust pipes rose above the building’s various sinks and toilets and drains. A low-rise knee wall with a double metal railing, each pipe an inch or two thick, circled the perimeter.
Val headed toward the edge overlooking the street, with the Torrington River flowing in the background. She kept her eyes glued to the floor, searching for anything that seemed out of place.
“Don’t get too close,” Travis said behind her. “Just in case.”
“In case what?” Val said over her shoulder. “In case I fall, or in case I contaminate the scene?”
“Both.”
She glanced back. He stood, frozen in place, ten feet behind her, his face pale and sweaty. A mask of fear. She chuckled. “For God’s sake. Are you afraid of heights?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I’m afraid of lows. As in, falling from high to low. If those wind gusts return—”
“There aren’t any wind gusts,” Val said, rolling her eyes. “Okay, you stay there and take pictures. I’ll be careful, I promise.” She guessed the shooter would have walked—or run, afterwards—in a straight line between the door and the edge rail. She kept a wide berth from the shooter’s suspected escape path.
Val moved to within about six feet of the edge and examined the entire length of the base of the knee wall from left to right and back again. Nothing jumped out at her. She couldn’t quite see the abortion clinic’s two-story building below, even across the wide city street, but she had a general sense of where it was. The shooter would want to set up near the corner so that he could use the railing and wall to steady and hide himself. That meant the right-hand corner, which was also closest to the exit door. She advanced closer, whipped out her cell phone, and snapped a wide-angle shot—for context. Then she zoomed in and snapped a series of close-ups, starting in the corner and shifting her focus leftward, overlapping each shot a smidge. She zoomed out and repeated the process twice more until she’d photographed a six-by-twelve-foot rectangle of space surrounding what she’d guessed to be the “shooter’s corner.”
Then she crouched and examined the area with her naked eye. It all seemed clean and empty. The shooter had cleaned up well.
Except.
Something looked amiss in the sticky black tar surface about two feet from the corner on the front wall.
She stepped closer. Stopped a few feet from the spot that looked different. Disturbed, even.
“Got something?” Travis called to her.
“Maybe.” Val stared at the spot. The tar seemed depressed in that spot. A U-shape, about four or five inches across, with a slight ridge around the edges.
She tried to edge closer, but her foot stuck in the tar a bit. She yanked it free—and then realized what she was looking at.
A footprint. A man’s shoe, size ten or eleven. Flat-soled—like a boot, maybe.
She hovered her hand an inch over the impression, for size comparison, and snapped a close-up.
“It’s not a lot,” she called back to Travis, “but it’s something.”
Stafford drove. Not fast, not slow, not in any particular direction, no destination in mind. He just drove.
The jitteriness in his fingers made it hard to grip the wheel, but anyone observing him might conclude he appeared as calm as a mountain lake. Tranquil. Serene, even. No excessive sweating, no nervous twitches, not even a dry mouth or licking of lips.
Nothing that would indicate he’d fired five rounds into a bunch of baby-killers, striking at least four, less than an hour before.
An eighty percent hit rate. Not perfect, not terrible. Much better than his Army trainers ever predicted he’d do in a live situation like that.
He’d proved them wrong. All of them. His Army recruiter, who’d recommended him for an infantry unit instead of Special Forces. His weapons trainers, who’d rated him only “fair” in marksmanship against moving targets. The psych evaluators, who said he lacked patience and emotional control. His sergeant, who booted him out after three brutal years of training. His family, back in Missouri, who’d cut ties with him when he joined the service, saying he’d betrayed their Quaker faith.
And Her.
Sage. The one he’d believed in. She’d lured him into her bed, conceived his child. Then, without a hint of warning, she murdered it in a chop shop much like the one he’d shot up today. Killed his child. His hope of family. His legacy.
Then she had the nerve to say that he, Stafford, was the unstable one, not fit for parenthood.
He’d shown them all today. How fit he was. How mentally and emotionally stable. The patience he’d displayed, waiting for the right moment. How good a shot he was.
And faith? He’d shown the higher degree of faith. Loyalty. Commitment to the cause. Protecting the lives of the unborn by removing their killers from the field of action.
A horn blared, and he slammed his brakes, skidding the cargo van to a halt six feet into the intersection. Dammit! That was close. He’d lost focus, let his mind wander off the task at hand. The angry driver who’d honked swerved around him, cursing at him, his face red. Not calm. Not in control.
He recognized his surroundings, realized he’d driven close to the Safe House quite by accident. Just a few blocks away. His unconscious mind had directed him. Or was it God bringing him to safety? He could accept either explanation.
The light changed, and he drove through the intersection, turned left at the next corner, then a right. Parked in a loading zone, courtesy of his employer, HMZ Delivery Service. Walked the half-block to the second-story walk-up, Unit 2-B, his Safe House. He bundled the clothes he’d worn during the event—overalls, shirt, and gloves—and tossed them into the incinerator chute. Washed his hands and face, on the off chance that gunshot residue had somehow bled through the gloves and survived the quick cleanse in the truck using makeup remover wipes. Even considered showering, but decided against it—he needed to get back to work.
Still, it might settle his nerves…
Why was he so nervous all of a sudden? Everything went according to plan, and he’d covered his tracks to perfection. He’d left nothing behind and nothing to chance. He’d set out a tarp on the surface of the hot roof to catch any residue, ejected shells, hairs, sweat, everything. Fired all five shots within seconds, disassembled and packed his weapon, and exited the building, all on schedule. Collected all five spent shells and disposed of them in a public dumpster over a mile away. Obscured his face, and avoided security cameras. Left no trace. None.
He breathed a sigh of relief, tension flowing out of him. Mental review helped settle his nerves. He’d planned well, practiced every move, and executed without fail. All had gone well.
Except for one thing.
He sat on the sofa and pulled off his oversized boots. They’d go into the incinerator, too. He grabbed a trash bag and struggled to shake it open. Stupid things! The perforated edges stuck together, wouldn’t budge. He set down the boots, rubbed his fingers along the edge. The damned plastic stuck to his fingers. Why?
He examined his fingers. Something sticky and dark remained on his fingertips. He flipped over the boot, and dread washed over him when he spotted the dark stain on the smooth beige surface.
There, in the center of the sole, was a sheen of black tar, smeared across the broadest section of the shoe.
From the roof of the building.
Which meant he’d left a trail of tar, in minuscule amounts perhaps, from the roof to his truck, and from the truck to his apartment.
Fuck!