Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 (82 page)
“How do you know that?”
“MEs can usually tell by penetration. A twenty-two solid point out of a rifle is moving two, three hundred feet a second faster than one coming out of a short-barreled handgun. From a long barrel they sometimes punch right on through.”
“So you are saying these shootings are not that rare?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not exactly saying that. These particular shootings? They aren’t normal. The Baltimore cop, a security guard in Delaware, a congressman out in California, and the Atlanta motorcycle patrolman? They were all shot in the head.”
“Ah. And that is unusual?”
“Yes, ma’am. If you were going to shoot somebody with a .22, a head shot would be the way to go, and more than one round. If I’m not mistaken, all of these guys were hit at least twice. My guess? Same guy did them all.”
Toni blinked, taking that in. “Really?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have a friend in ballistics over at the regular feeb-shop. The cop in Baltimore? He was hit twice by two different guns. According to the forensics wound-angle stuff, they are pretty sure the bullets hit him at about the same time, and from the same height and distance. That tells me you either got shooters standing side by side and aiming for the same spot, or one guy with two guns.”
Toni nodded. “Go on. Please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ballistics on the congressman say both rounds in him came from the same gun, two head shots, from inside five feet—there were powder speckles on the car and dead guy. The security guy in Delaware caught a bunch of rounds, in the body and neck, only one in the head, but that’s probably because the shooter started cooking and walked them up to be sure. Probably too far away to be certain of a head shot right off. All of those wounds were from the same gun.”
“And the Atlanta cop?”
“Nothing in on him yet, but if the shooter was the same guy who opened up in a bar forty-five minutes earlier, and it looks like he was, he was using a snub-nosed revolver.”
“There were witnesses?”
Gunny laughed. “A whole bar full of bikers, but none of them saw a thing. There was a security cam installed there. Atlanta PD is going over that recording with a microscope right now.”
“So what do you think?”
“Well, the revolver fits with the other shootings. The guy didn’t leave any used brass, for one thing, which implies it was a revolver. Of course, he could have hunted it up and collected it, if he’d been using a semiauto, but the two cops and the guard were done at night. Brass from a .22 flies a long way, and it would be very hard finding it all in the dark. At the Atlanta shooting, people looked out and saw a car pulling away right after the shots were fired. Not much chance of him stopping to hunt for expended shells. A revolver makes more sense.”
“Hmm.”
“Another thing. I think we’re dealing with a sportsman here.”
“Excuse me?”
“All the dead guys? They all had guns. And they had all cleared the decks when they got hit, all had hands on their weapons. I think we’re talking about a hunter. He only shoots people who can shoot back. Most-dangerous-game kind of guy.”
“Lord. Does the FBI think this?”
“I’d bet big money they’ve considered it, ma’am. They got some pretty swift folks over there.”
“Thank you, Gunny.”
After she hung up, Toni sat staring at the computer screen. It wasn’t her job to find the shooter or shooters who’d done this. But it did pique her interest. She knew some people over at the regular shop. Maybe she could get a copy of the tape showing the shooter?
It wouldn’t hurt to look at it.
34
Jay was working at his desk when Toni stuck her head into his office.
“Hey, Jay. You got a minute?”
“Always,” he said. “What’s up?”
Toni stepped into the office. She held up a mini-disk in her right hand and showed it to him. “This. It’s a surveillance vid of a guy who shot somebody in a biker bar in Atlanta.”
He took the silver-dollar-sized disk from her and slipped it into his station’s reader. “What’s the deal?”
“Well, it’s not really our business. At least nobody has asked us to do anything with it. I stumbled over this while I was looking for something else.”
The holoproj lit, and Jay saw it was from a cheap video recorder, a low-res cam set high on a wall. Sure enough, it was one of those dewdrop inn kinda of places, full of men in biker colors, women in garish eye shadow, and a lot of tattoos on both sexes. The angle was wide, showing much of the floor. Off to the right were four men, three in colors, one not wearing biker gear. The civilian suddenly jumped up. He started running, and as he did, he pulled two small handguns from under what looked like a fishing vest, and began shooting. There was no sound. The shooter raced out of the viewing field and was gone in a couple of seconds. The recording jumped, and a new scene appeared, a parking lot full of motorcycles, with a few cars.
As Jay watched, the guy who had done the blasting in the bar came into view from the right, ran to a car, hopped into it, and drove away.
The recording stopped.
He looked up at Toni. “Okay.”
“This was taken by the interior and exterior security cams at the Peach Pit,” Toni said, “a bar on the outskirts of Atlanta. Less than an hour after this was recorded, an Atlanta policeman was shot and killed at a traffic stop. Witnesses got a look at the car leaving, and it seems to be the same make. I just talked to a contact across the compound who says preliminary ballistics make the cop-killer’s guns the same as the one used by the shooter in the bar.”
“So unless he sold his hardware real quick, the biker bar guy shot the cop,” Jay said.
“Yep.”
“And what, exactly, is our interest in this?”
“I talked to Gunny at the shooting range. He thinks this guy has been shooting other folks recently. Including Congressman Wentworth out in California.”
“Really? The regular feebs know this?”
“Probably. But they don’t have Smokin’ Jay Gridley working it. It would be very nice to hand it to them on a platter. They’d owe us one.”
He smiled. “Hooyah,” he said. “It sure would. What do you want me to do?”
“I’ve sent you a file with other possible shootings by this guy. Enhance the image as much as you can, then start looking at car rental agency security cams around the times and places of those other killings. See if you can find anybody who looks like this guy renting a vehicle around then.”
Jay nodded. “I can do that. I could also check local motel and hotel cams while I’m at it. Would you sign off on an hour of mainframe time for the Super-Cray if I can get eight face-match points on him?”
She nodded. “Yeah. If we catch him, nobody will complain about that. If not, we’ll worry about it at the budget meeting next month.”
“I’m on it,” Jay said.
Toni nodded and left, and Jay started right in on it. Fiddling with his enhancement program, he used the holographic fill to zoom in and augment the features of the shooter. The man was dark, almost swarthy, had black hair, and, oddly enough, blue eyes.
Jay ran the stats, the ratio of forehead to nose, to eye spacing, ear proportions, all like that, trying for an ethnic tap, but it came up inconclusive. Still, he had nine pretty certain points on the Segura Facial Structures Grid, and he needed only eight to come up with a greater-than-seventy-five-percent match—if he could find other pictures as good as this one. The SFSG had been developed for use in airport and bank surveillance cams to catch robbers and potential terrorists. It wasn’t altogether accurate, but seven out of ten was more than enough for a field agent to start checking out somebody’s alibi.
The SFSG program on the Super-Cray routinely accepted and catalogued input from thousands of commercial surveillance cams in the U.S. every day. That translated into hundreds of thousands, even millions of pictures. The computer could compare the facial grids of a suspect against a day’s worth of those and spit out possible matches in ten minutes. With an hour’s worth of time, Jay could check six days of tapes. Of course, the bill to Net Force for the computer’s time would be more than he made in a month, but if he caught a guy who shot an elected federal official? It was congressmen who approved their budget, they wouldn’t kick over a few bucks to nail the guy who got one of their own.
If Jay limited himself to the days immediately before and after one of the shootings, he could check three of them. If he held it to just the day before, say, he could check six. He only needed to run four, according to the file Toni had e-mailed him. No sweat.
His system was on voxax mode. “Call the Super-Cray,” he told the computer. Boy, he loved saying that—that was real power.
Michaels was, figuratively, knee-deep in legal wranglings, and not pleased about it. When Toni came by, he was happy enough for any distraction.
“Hey,” he said, waving hard copy at her. “Have I mentioned that we really need a vacation?”
“I hear you,” Toni said, grinning. “Meanwhile, I have something interesting. You want to come to the conference room? Jay’s there.”
“Sure.”
At the conference room, Jay sat at the table, smiling like a cat who had swallowed a whole aviary full of canaries.
“What?” Alex said as soon as he walked in.
“Toni?” Jay asked, looking at her.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Shine.”
Jay grinned even wider. “Toni came across some information about that congressman who got shot recently,” he said. “Not really our case, in that the local cops and the regular feebs didn’t ask us in on it yet, but it seemed like a good idea to run with it.”
Michaels nodded. “And . . . ?”
“And we got the shooter,” Jay said, trying for an offhand ease he didn’t quite pull off.
Michaels raised an eyebrow. “Got him?”
“Well, not exactly, but we know who he is.”
Both Jay and Toni looked inordinately pleased with themselves.
Jay said, “Toni gave me a security tape of a guy who shot some people in a bar in Atlanta, then a cop. I entered his face into the Super-Cray and ran it through SFSG. Got a match on a guy renting a car in California the same day the congressman got hammered. Also got a match on a rental in D.C. the same day a cop in Baltimore was killed.”
Jay passed over a trio of hard-copy photographs. In one, a man wearing a cowboy hat and sunglasses stood in front of a counter. In the other, a man wearing a baseball cap and a large moustache occupied the picture from a similar angle. The last one, from the scene in the Atlanta bar, showed a man with guns in both hands, with people in the background ducking for cover.
“Same guy in all three pix,” Jay said. “Nine point match on two, eight on the last one—the fake moustache hides the upper lip. Of course, he used a different name and ID for all the rentals, and they were pretty good—ID thefts that checked out on first hits.”
“So you have a man who rents cars and wears a false moustache. Doesn’t prove anything.”
“Well, if that’s all we had, him being in the area, that’d be pretty circumstantial. But that’s not all we’ve got.”
He slid a fourth picture across the table. Michaels could see it was the same man, and the image appeared to be an ID photo. It had that ugly driver’s-license look to it.
“Marcus ‘Junior’ Boudreaux,” Jay said. “We got a visual match from Louisiana penal records—he did a stretch at the state prison, Angola. He’s a legbreaker, general all-around thug, and professional bad guy. Arrested once for killing a man, but he got off. He fits the profile.”
“Well, I’m impressed. I’m sure our brothers and sisters across the compound will appreciate it.”
“Oh, but that’s not all,” Jay said. “You have to figure that a guy like Junior wouldn’t just go off and start shooting congressmen on his own, for no reason. He’s got to be working for somebody.”
“And . . . ?”
“And so we ran Junior’s picture and various fake IDs through some other places. Since he’s a shooter, we hit all the public gun clubs we could find in and around his last known place of residence, which was, by the way, in the District of Columbia. Up and down the east coast.”
Jay paused dramatically.
“Okay,” Alex said when he didn’t go on immediately. “Are you going to drop that shoe or stand there holding it all day?”
Jay grinned. “We found that Junior is a member at four shooting ranges, including one in New York City. Under different names.”
“Uh-huh. Get on with it.”
“And so we ran membership lists of those clubs, with the idea that maybe we might come across a name of somebody else we recognized there. Just on the off chance.”
“Come on, Jay—”
Jay slid another sheet of hard copy across the table. On it was a list of names, one of which was highlighted in yellow.
Michaels looked at the highlighted name. “No,” he said. He shook his head. “No way.”
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