Premeditated Murder (5 page)

Terry hated when Zack did that. “Don't take that as an invitation to jerk us around, though,” he interposed. “We've been doing criminal work for over ten years, and Zack and I have got extremely sensitive bullshit meters. So tell us what happened, and we'll let you know whether there's anything we can do for you. Tell us a bunch of crap, and we're out the door.”

For some reason, a smile spread across the big man's face.

“And by the way, the fact that you're black is going to make this case ten times harder than it already is. Which really sucks. Just so you know,” Terry added.

Thompkins's smile broadened. “You know, I can tell already that I'm really going to like you two,” he said.

Maybe they were going to catch a break and find out the guy was a whack job.

“Why don't you tell us what happened?” Zack said.

“There's a lot of background leading up to this,” Thompkins said. “I'm not sure where to begin. After I graduated college, I started postgraduate work at M.I.T. Should I start there?”

Background. Unbelievable.
I was born in a small log cabin—
Uh, excuse me, could you jump ahead to the part where you blow six people away? Terry started to pace.

“How about a couple of hours before you were arrested?” Zack suggested. “Let's say, start at two or three that afternoon. We'll have plenty of time to get into the background later.” Thank God.

“Oh. Okay. Let's see. By two that afternoon, I was already waiting for them in the apartment across the hall. I was renting it,” Thompkins explained. “I was expecting the last of them to come back at around four o'clock, so at about two, I made sure the gun was loaded and ready, and I started waiting. Since our doors were directly across the hall from each other, all I had to do was look through my peephole and I could see whenever they went in or out.

“I don't know exactly when it was, but before I was really ready, their apartment opened, and one of them, the one with the big nose, came out into the hallway. But almost as soon as he started down the hall, he must have seen one of his friends coming toward him, because suddenly he was back in front of his apartment with this other guy—a short guy with a real thick beard. So the guy with the big nose goes in, and then while the short guy starts to follow him in, I open my door. I didn't want to have to knock on their door or anything. I just wanted to blast through while it was already open.

“And that's just what happened. As soon as I got out into the hallway I started firing right into that door. The gun was incredibly loud, but I could still hear shouting and screaming—I figure from the short guy. He probably got hit from the bullets that went through the door.”

Amazing. It was like attending a lecture titled “How to Commit a First-Degree Murder.” Premeditation and intent were a lock—the gunman had rented the place across the hall from his victims and then waited until the door was opened before he started shooting. He planned the whole thing. The prosecution was going to have no problem with that. Self-defense, defense of others, mistaken identity—all these strategies were a joke. Either they were going to have to prove that Thompkins was crazy, or they might as well just walk him right into the execution chamber.

“That was stupid of me, of course, because when the short guy fell, it made it hard to get the door open,” Cal continued. “But I kicked, and it finally gave way.

“By that time, they were running all over the place, trying to get away, or I don't know, maybe to get guns to shoot me, but the weapon I had was incredible. I just swept it back and forth across the room again and again as I walked in, hardly aiming at anyone. I didn't have to. They were just falling like they were made out of cardboard.”

Maybe the guy really was nuts, talking about killing a handful of people in cold blood with no more emotion than if he were just shooting the shit with his neighbor while watering his freakin' lawn.

“Anyway, it seemed like a long time, but I bet it was only fifteen or twenty seconds before I thought I'd killed them all, and I stopped shooting. That was another stupid mistake,” Cal said, smiling again. “I started going from body to body, shooting them with a little burst, just to make sure they were dead, when all of a sudden the bathroom door flies open, and this guy comes out wearing only a bathrobe, screaming ‘You'll never get away with this!' and running across the room. I know it's strange, but the first thing I thought of was ‘Shit, I'm not getting away with
anything,
' and then I started shooting at him. Some of the bullets must have hit this window, though, because when he went down he kind of leaned against it, and ended up crashing right through it, and falling down into the courtyard.

“Like a fool, I started to walk toward the window to look where he fell, but right about then I heard a pop, and I knew that I was dead, because I obviously hadn't killed them all. And before I could even turn I was on the floor with this burning pain in my leg. Luckily, I'd held on to my gun, and as soon as I could, I dragged myself past this table and started shooting again. The guy who shot me in the leg turned out to be the one with the big nose. I don't think that he got off another shot, so maybe the bullet that hit my arm was a ricochet. I didn't even notice it at first, because my leg hurt so bad, and I was bleeding so much.

“I dragged myself out into the hallway, and then I called 911 on my cell phone. That's when I realized my arm was shot, too. I threw the gun down the hallway a bit, so the cops wouldn't think I was going to shoot them. Then I laid down and just waited for them to come.” Cal paused for a moment, in thought, then nodded. “That's exactly what happened,” he decided.

The room fell dead silent except for the beep of the heart monitor. Zack looked like he hadn't moved in five minutes.

Finally, Cal turned slowly to Terry and asked, “So how's your bullshit meter?”

Terry nodded. “It's good,” he answered quietly.

FOUR

Automated Voice:
January 30. Two twenty-four
A
.
M
.

911 Operator:
Nine-one-one. This call is being recorded. What is your emergency?

Male Voice #1:
Hello? I think there's somebody in my house. I think there are robbers … Somebody's inside my house.

Operator:
There are intruders in your house right now, sir?

Male Voice #1:
I hear—

Male Voice #2 [in distance]:
Oh, shit! Somebody's here!

Operator:
Who is that?

Male Voice #1:
Oh, no.

Male Voice #2 [in distance]:
Jack, we gotta get out of here! [Sound of door slamming.]

Operator:
Sir, what is your location?

[Crashing sound.]

Operator:
Sir? Sir?

[Sound of groaning.]

Operator:
We're sending someone out to you right now. Can you verify your address? Sir? Can you hear me, sir?

[Sound of female crying.]

Operator:
Ma'am? Ma'am, can you hear me?

Female Voice #1 [in distance]:
Grandpa?

Operator:
Ma'am? If you can hear me, please pick up the telephone.

Female Voice #1 [crying in distance]:
Grandpa?

Operator:
Ma'am? Can you please pick up the telephone and tell me—

Female Voice #1:
Hello?

Operator:
Hello. This is the nine-one-one operator. Are you hurt?

Female Voice [crying]:
No. But something's wrong with my grandfather.

Operator.
Okay, okay. Try to calm down, okay? Can you tell me if your address is Sixteen Michaels Drive?

Female Voice [crying]:
No. Yes. I mean yes.

Operator:
Okay. Someone is coming right now to help you. They should be there in just a minute. Can you tell me if anyone is there besides your grandfather? He called and said that there were strangers in your house.

Female Voice [crying]:
I don't know. I don't think so.

Operator:
Okay. And you aren't hurt?

Female Voice [crying]:
No, but I think my grandfather is having a heart attack.

Operator:
Okay. Someone will be right there.

Female Voice:
Hurry.

Automated Voice:
January 30. Two twenty-six
A
.
M
.

CERTIFICATE

I hereby certify that the foregoing record, consisting of two pages exclusive of this Certificate, is a true and complete transcription of the tape recording labeled “9–1–1 DPD Precinct 4, January 30, 2:24
A.M.
” and delivered to me by the Detroit Police Department.

     In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand …

     s/Regina Bedloe

January 31—Air Force One

“MR. PRESIDENT, WE'LL BE COMING UP ON lower Manhattan in just a minute or two. Should have a clear view out the left side of the plane.”

“Thanks, Major,” Matt answered, hanging up the phone and getting up to take a look.

Matt had specifically asked to have Air Force One's flight path changed so that he could see Ground Zero as they flew by. He made a point to see it every time he had a chance. To silently honor the sacrifice of those who died that day.

Matt was familiar with sacrifice. Hell, every soldier who had ever done a tour in Vietnam was best friends with sacrifice. Matt's staff sergeant, José, called it scrubbing the outhouse. You didn't eat well, you didn't sleep well, you got sick, you got shot at, you got injured, and sometimes you even got killed.

You were a soldier, you scrubbed the outhouse.

But the tragedy of September 11 was different. Not just because so many of the victims were civilians, but because the losses went beyond the physical and emotional injuries suffered by thousands. Beyond the devastation of that part of the Manhattan skyline that Matt watched quietly as he flew past on his way to the U.N.

America itself was a victim. The land of the free was now the land of the suspicious. It had been years since that horrible day, but personal freedoms were still far from where they'd been before 9/11.

Of course, that was the way it had to be. It didn't make a hell of a lot of sense to pretend that things could just go on as they had before. Some of the changes that the government had made after the terrorist attacks were part of an extremely painful but very important process. It wasn't easy finding the right balance between vigilance and respecting personal privacy. But it was a cold fact of life in this new era that security from the kind of terror that was unleashed on September 11 was going to cost something. From long and slow lines at airports, to metal detectors at baseball games—baseball games, for God's sake—to inspections of car trunks at parking garages, to tougher immigration policies.

Now everyone was scrubbing the outhouse. Everyone was sacrificing.

“I know it will be a sacrifice for you, Colonel, to come out of retirement so soon, but this Monday, I'd like to announce you as my choice to replace Vice President Quarters. The Vice President will be resigning before the week is out.”

Matt had been to Washington plenty of times while in the service, and he'd even been to the White House a few times—once to receive the medal, and once to meet with Vernon Browning about some testimony he was going to give to Congress on a couple of the military operations that he had run.

But that was only because Matt had become a sort of short-term minor celebrity for handling a very difficult assignment in Lebanon several years ago and then found himself smack in the middle of the whole Pakistan mess when push had truly become shove, and President Graham had to act. Thanks to some excellent intel and a superior core of junior officers, that operation had also turned into an overwhelming success. The press, as always, needed somebody to put on the front page, and they picked Matt. The way they kept throwing his picture onto magazine covers and bringing up the whole Vietnam story was embarrassing.