I was straightening up the desk, organizing my notes, when Moskowitz said, “Hey. Boxer.”
“Hey, Bud. Come in, come in.”
I stretched out my hand. We shook and I offered him a chair. Harold Moskowitz, known as Bud, was more than twenty years older than me. I hadn’t known him well, but I had a good feeling about him.
“So, you have a tip for us, Bud? Because we could use one.” Moskowitz looked fit, as well as focused and competent.
“You mind if I take a look at those photos?”
“Go ahead.”
He walked over to the wall and looked at the crime scene photos taken of the victims from different angles. He spent time with each one, slowly, methodically examining them, taking a couple off the wall to hold under the light, asking me about the victims and the caliber of the rounds.
I told him what little I knew, that the shells were of different types, that the casings hadn’t been found, that Forensics hadn’t gotten any hits in the database because of the bullets’ impact with bone or plaster or brick.
I asked Moskowitz, “What do you see?”
“All the shots were taken from a good distance. Very professional work.”
“We all agree.”
“Boxer, I don’t know if this is worth anything, but when I read in the paper about all these shootings taking place at the same time, it reminded me of this website I used to belong to.”
“Moving Targets, by chance?”
“Well,” he said, slapping the desk, “you stole my tip. I’ll be going now.”
I laughed and told him to stay. “No, really. Our computer tech also came up with Moving Targets, but we’re still in the weeds. Tell me what you know.”
“My wife is waiting for me downstairs, so let me give you the short version. I used to belong to the site. I played the game as a game. For target practice. But at some point I started to think that some of the guys on the board were highly trained experts, very competitive, and that they were crazy. They talked in the chats about killing like it’s the greatest high in the world.
“But I didn’t know. Were they talking shit? Or were they for real? The site held virtual events. Competitions. And there were team events; points were awarded for the best shots and for teams shooting multiple targets. The more difficult, the higher the points and the bragging rights. It looked like it was pretend, cartoon murder. But after a while I wasn’t entirely sure.
“So then the newspaper stories and something I saw on the internet. A picture of two bullet holes through a second-story window, two shots that took out two people—it set off alarm bells.”
“This is really getting to me, Bud. I’m thinking along the same lines. I’d like to get into this site. Can you give me a password or something? I can pretend to be you.”
“I opted out ten years ago and my codes have expired. Understand, Boxer, I never matched up guys boasting about kill shots with actual deaths. There were groups within the group. I didn’t belong to any subgroup. I wasn’t working under cover, and I wasn’t a serious player.”
My mind had been dull with pain just minutes before. Now it crackled like a downed electric wire.
“Let me make sure I understand. You’re saying that Moving Targets appeared like a sports forum. People who were known only by screen names, shooting off their mouths, playing virtual ball. But instead of making bets on lineups and game outcomes, they’re bragging about killing people? Why did you keep this to yourself?”
“Boxer. First of all, there were no names or pictures of real bodies, just chatter and cartoon drawings with x’s over the eyes. Bang. You’re dead. And a sound effect.
“Also, I told Tracchio about it.”
Tracchio had been police chief before Jacobi. Many years had passed, and Tracchio was long retired.
Moskowitz went on.
“Tracchio gave me a direct order. He said if I didn’t have real names, bodies, facts, to get the hell off Moving Targets. I did what he said. I was with SWAT. I had plenty of shooting in real life. I quit the site and never went back.”
It was more than I’d known ten minutes before, but I still had nothing actionable. Not yet. I thanked Bud and invited him to be part of our team.
“Thanks, no, I’m going to the Bahamas tomorrow with Bev. Our nephew is getting married. So look, I left my contact information with Brenda.”
I wished him a good flight, and after he was gone, I headed down the corridor to debrief Brady. A half hour later, keys in hand, I left the building focused on facts.
Drug dealers had been killed. Mostly nickel-bag nobodies, except for the Barons, celebrities who’d bought massive inventory but hadn’t yet launched their drug business. Shooting them through the windows had been much harder than killing the others on the street. Were those executions extra points for a video sniper?
Brady had agreed with me that it appeared to be a military operation, and Stempien, too, had said that he thought Moving Targets was heavy on military.
Had the drug dealer hits been organized by the members of Moving Targets? Was Leonard Barkley one of those hitters?
The answers were just out of reach.
The lights were out. And I couldn’t see a thing.