He adjusted the voice-altering software on the mobile app to sound like a woman, checked the time, and made the call. He listened as the all-too-familiar monotone question sounded on the other end of the line.
“911, what is the nature of your emergency?”
“I don’t know if 911 was the right number to call or if I should have dialed child protective services.”
“Ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”
“It’s my neighbor, Arvin Wagner. He’s a junkie and takes out his frustrations on his kids. I can hear him screaming and trashing the apartment.”
“I’ll need the address of the emergency.”
“Certainly. His apartment is at 7057 West Seventieth Street, just off South Halsted, number 202.”
“A unit has been dispatched and should arrive in the next few minutes. The officers will want a statement from you after they speak to Mr. Wagner. Your name is?”
“Beth Grimes, and I live in apartment 203. This isn’t the best neighborhood, but I have to live somewhere in an affordable apartment.”
“Thank you, Miss Grimes. The officers will be there momentarily.”
He hung up before the operator could ask more questions. A small parking lot, empty of cars, led to the back door of the laundromat, and since it was daylight, he was forced to change the gun he would use. A former marine, he was proficient with many weapons, and the firearm made no difference to him. Accuracy was what counted. The 9mm Beretta with a fifteen-round magazine would do just fine. Two bullets was all he needed, and taking aim and hitting the heads of the responding officers fifty yards away would be a no-brainer. He grimaced at the irony of the thought.
He climbed the rickety steps just inside the back door to the laundromat’s tarred, flat-topped roof, planted the evidence, then took his position. He’d be able to pick off the cops in two seconds flat and be gone in ten. With a right-hand glance every few seconds, he’d easily see the squad car approaching from several blocks away. Meanwhile, he lined up the sights and took aim at the curb in front of the apartment building while he awaited their arrival.
Here they come. Get ready, officers. You’re literally about to be blown away.
Seconds later, the squad car pulled to the curb. Racking a round into the chamber, he steadied his gun with both hands to avoid the slightest movement, then rested his finger against the trigger. He watched as the driver’s-side door opened and a male officer stepped out. His eyes darted to the opening passenger door, and the second officer stepped onto the patch of grass next to the curb.
Looks like you’ll be the first female to die. That’s going to cause a frenzy at the PD.
He waited as the officers cleared the car and started up the sidewalk. He was close enough to hear them talk as they walked toward the vestibule’s door. They had no cover in the immediate area to hide behind, so his shots would drop them instantly.
With the slightest bit of pressure to the trigger, he fired off the first round, and a mist of red filled the air around the male officer’s head. A quick second shot dropped the female. They both lay in blood pools that formed beneath them on the sidewalk. He picked up the two spent casings, holstered the gun, and scurried down the stairs to the laundromat’s rear exit. Casually walking away so he wouldn’t attract attention, he turned down the next street, climbed into his car, and drove away, blending in with the morning traffic.