The Man Who Lost His Shadow, page 4
"The truth, guys," Jason said slowly, eying both of them carefully, "is that it's still too early to tell what actually happened at the Convention. They're still updating the body count. The local cops seem to be handling the situation, though what I heard was the FBI would take over. But it's been less than an hour since the shots were fired, so a lot can change over the next few hours. That....is the truth."
He paused, and when the brothers exchanged a nervous look, he seized his chance.
"Now why don’t you two go ahead and tell me your truth? Why exactly did you call me here? It sounded like an emergency."
Alfred Shoby looked like he was about to protest the suggestion, but his brother walked off towards the counter and began pouring three glasses of whiskey. Alfred sighed and slumped in his sofa, trying to come up with a way to explain what was on his mind.
"There was an incident at the Convention, Jason."
It was Michael who spoke. He walked back from the counter and handed them their glasses.
"You ever been to the Convention?"
Jason took a sip and shook his head. He was a Republican but never too crazy about the 2nd Amendment. He'd never even held a gun before. Not that he'd admit it in front of the Shoby brothers.
"Well, it's normally all high energy stuff, you know, people gathering from all over the country. It's a celebration of sorts. It's normally...."
His voice trailed off as he grabbed his drink from the counter and took a sip. Alfred shook his head as something deeply troubling played in his mind.
"Yesterday evening, things got a little out of hand at the main Ballroom," he whispered, hands nursing an untouched drink.
Jason Ackerman leaned forward, taking another quick sip. "Out of hand how?"
Michael Shoby emptied his glass and decided to spit it out. "A bunch of assholes almost came to blows last night, Jason. And we think they didn't stop at that!"
*
The 102nd Precinct was a sprawling building that was slowly rotting from the inside. Countless corridors zigzagging across three floors had been abandoned, passing by rooms that'd been sealed decades ago. Hardly seventy officers operated from the building, and most of the activity was limited to the ground floor, particularly from the wide front doors that lead into the giant Precinct Bull Pen. The senior-most officers, including the Captain, had their offices on an elevated platform at the opposite end of the Hall. Metal railing fenced the platform, from which the Captain could survey every desk in the Bull Pen and make impromptu announcements.
A few minutes before 4 p.m., Connor and the two detectives had walked out of the Precinct to grab a late lunch from the hot dog stand that'd endured for over three decades now. The 102nd Precinct might have been a shabby building, but it stood in the corner of a Plaza, which meant three sides lead out onto brick pathways. Though one side of the building had been turned into a parking lot, the front and Eastside were still open and filled with occasional pedestrians who stopped for a quick bite at one of the half dozen or so food trucks.
The three men were just about to finish their lunches, when sirens wailed and two squad cars shot forward from the West Side entrance, dashing across the Plaza and scattering pedestrians. It was unruly behavior for an officer of the 102nd Precinct, but the four who dashed from the vehicles into the building didn’t seem to care.
Wordlessly the three men began walking back towards the Precinct, aware that something was about to unfold. Just as they reached the front doors, there was a screech of tires and they turned around to see two giant black vans barrel towards them.
It took Connor a few seconds to spot the three letters painted on the side.
"Fuck, this is gonna be bad!" He muttered, tossing away the last bits of his hotdog as the detectives hurried back.
Most of the men in the Precinct Hall were on their feet, in anticipation of what was about to unfold. The four officers who'd rushed to talk to the Captain were now flinching from his outbursts, and his voice sailed over from the platform, reverberating off the walls of the Precinct's Hall.
"What do you mean they said the place was clean?"
The front doors flung open, and four men dressed in black vests and beige pants, with caps carrying the three-letter acronym of their agency, strolled in, ignoring the dirty looks thrown at them. The man leading the group looked up, spotted the Captain leaning over the railing, and smiled wryly.
"What the hell are you guys doing here?" Captain Roger Wilson roared, though it was clear he knew the answer. Everyone in the Precinct did. The three letters on the four caps were pretty explanatory.
"I take it you've been informed of the search at the suspect's house?" The man said softly, in direct contrast to his adversary, as he walked up to the steps leading to the platform. He paused, eyebrows raised.
"And who the hell gave you the right to come over and interfere in our local investigation?" The Captain hissed, jabbing a finger downwards at the calm figure.
"Local investigation?" The man chuckled, shaking his head. "Captain Wilson, the entire country is waiting to hear what happens in this investigation. I'd say it's hardly local anymore."
"That still doesn’t give you the right to butt in -"
The man held up a hand, and the gesture took the Captain by surprise.
"I came here to inform you that my team is going over to the Hotel, to start our preliminary investigation. I take it you've been handling the crime scene so far, so I thought a heads-up in person would be needed."
Merson felt Connor nudge him in the ribs. "Check this out," he whispered in disbelief. From their vantage point, they could see two black GMC Suburbans pull up to the front of the Precinct. "Is this really happening?"
"Listen, Murphy! The Commissioner's backing me on this. This is a local investigation. I'm in charge, and there's no way in hell the bloody ATF is going to -"
The Captain sensed eyes shift over to the entrance and looked up sharply. For a moment, he looked like he didn't comprehend what had just happened.
Before he could speak, the first of the four men in suits rushed up the stairs and stood mere meters from him.
"Captain Wilson?" The man asked. "I'm Agent Samuel Harris, FBI, and I'm here to take over the investigation."
Captain Roger Wilson's lips quivered for a second, and the two seasoned detectives ducked into their office just in time to escape the roar that reverberated throughout the Precinct Hall.
*
"Damn, what the hell's going on out there?" Jimmy T asked, getting up from his seat and craning his head to look over the two detectives’ shoulders. "The Captain's going nuts, huh?"
Merson pushed the criminal back into his seat almost absentmindedly, his mind churning over a bigger problem.
"What do you think's going to happen?" He asked, drumming his fingers on his desk.
Sterner leaned against the office door and cracked open a few blinds. "Well, from the looks of it, the Captain's gonna have a coronary any minute now."
His partner chuckled, but the drumming continued. There was a tinge of anxiousness in the air now.
Sterner's smile evaporated as he considered the next hour or so.
"Well, I don’t think the Captain's going to get his wish. The FBI will take over the case. I don’t care how bad Seattle was, this is still a federal investigation, and the FBI has way too much muscle to be messed with..."
"Yo, the Feds are the Feds, right," Jimmy T said solemnly, and the detectives appreciated his company.
"So good to have you with us, Jimmy. Off the record, you should rob more stores every once in a while. Really livens up the atmosphere around here," Merson teased, and the career criminal made a face.
"I didn’t do it this time, man. Honestly. I was busy the whole day. Seriously."
"It's going to be a mess, either way," Sterner muttered, checking the Precinct Bull Pen again. The ATF and FBI agents were arguing with each other and the local uniforms. The noise level was off the charts. "Even if the FBI takes the lead, I don’t think we or the ATF are gonna give up. There's gonna be a struggle, that's for sure."
"What a clusterfuck," Greg Merson sighed, wondering how things had gotten so bad. He checked his watch. "We're one and a half hours in."
There was silence in the office for a moment, punctured by the criminal's exclamation. "Jesus Christ! 224 people dead!"
They turned around to see Jimmy T cupping his hands under his phone as he scanned his Twitter feed.
"Seriously?" Sterner chuckled, stepping forward to snatch the phone away. The criminal was more curious than annoyed. "Damn, Sterner, just how many shooters were there?"
For a moment, his question hung in the air, as the two detectives thought about it. How many people had it taken to commit this atrocity?
*
"Jesus Christ..."
Jason Ackerman whispered for the third time, staring at the television screen with a horrified, almost dazed expression. The Shoby brothers were huddled together, one on the sofa, one on its arm. They watched him like patients awaiting a doctor's confirmation.
"Is there any evidence of this?"
It was asked after almost a minute, so softly that the two men almost didn’t hear.
"Evidence?"
Jason Ackerman stirred, face rapidly filling up with a sense of urgency. "Do you have any proof, dammit? Anything on video, or mobile phone? Any pictures or audio recordings...anything?"
The brothers exchanged confused looks. "We - we don’t think so. Jason, I don’t think you understand -"
But the young man was on his feet, pacing in front of them, flitting in and out of the television screen's view.
"Okay, this is serious, we need to think of how it's going to play out. Do you know if any of the people involved had spoken about it to anyone yesterday? Anyone from the media, like bloggers or newspapers or things like that?"
"Media...no, I don’t think -"
"We'll need to get a hold of the survivors, know what their stories are," Jason continued, almost to himself. He was running a hand through his hair, speaking rapidly, dashing from one wall to the other. "God, we'll have to get there before the media gets a hold of one of them..."
The Shoby brothers looked frightened. Alfred cleared his throat meekly, trying to gain the frantic man's attention. "Do - do you think we could keep this under the radar? I mean, we're hoping this stay with you..."
That made the man stop in his tracks. Jason Ackerman looked at them as though they were insane, and they increasingly felt the same way about him.
"Stays with me?" He asked in disbelief. "That's what you're concerned about? That I tell someone else what you told me?"
The brothers shifted uncomfortably. "Well, it'd be a horrible rumor if it got out -" Alfred started but Jason cut him off.
"For God sakes! Rumour? Dear God man! Don’t you realize what'll happen if this turns out to be true?"
There was a pregnant pause between them. Both brothers bowed their heads, unwilling to verbalize their nightmare. But Jason wasn’t about to back down.
"You call me up here and tell me that two factions within the NRA started arguing about a 2nd Amendment court case and it got increasingly violent over the course of yesterday evening. And that they may have pulled guns on each other?"
"It's just a possibility, Jason, for God sake, it's not the Gospel -"
"Can you imagine the repercussions?" Jason yelled, throwing his arms in the air. "Two dozen men at the NRA, drunk off their heads, discharging their firearms? My god, Alfred, over 240 men are dead! Dead! The whole world's searching for a bunch of gunmen, screaming it was either a nutcase or a bunch of terrorists, and the whole time, it was a group of NRA members themselves?"
Michael stirred, but his angry words were pre-empted. "If there's even a one percent chance of it having happened, that's enough!" Jason hissed, stamping his feet.
"One percent chance, even the slightest possibility that that's what happened, and you can kiss goodbye to your damn organization. The whole thing will be smashed to the ground, wiped off the political landscape. Not even the craziest Republican politician will touch you after that. It'll be over, you understand?"
He stared at them, eyes wide, face feverish, mind still playing the imagery of how such a catastrophe would unfold. The media circus, the violent protests, the nationwide scorn, and ridicule.
Alfred Shoby was almost in tears at the thought of it happening. His elder, more stoic brother managed to cut the tension. "Alright, what do you propose we should do now?"
Jason Ackerman walked towards the bar counter, breathing deeply. "We can handle the survivors. I can get people to the hospitals, make sure no one starts talking about anything related to this...but it's the cops we'll need to worry about."
He poured a tall drink for himself, very slowly.
"Do you have connections at the FBI?" Michael Shoby asked gruffly, almost hiding the worry.
Jason took a long sip and grunted. "Have you seen the news? Doesn’t exactly look like the Feds are in charge yet, does it?"
He saw they were confused and waved a hand dismissively. "I need to figure out who's handling the whole thing. And then.... well, then we need to make sure they're not looking in our direction."
Alfred looked like he was about to say something, but his elder brother gripped his arm briefly. Jason pretended to be too occupied to notice, but as he turned away, an uneasy thought crept into his mind. Was he the only one they’d called for help?
*
The briefing room was large enough to hold over two hundred men, but it was presently suffocating from the presence of just twenty. The air was thick with tension, and none of the three teams standing equidistant from each other were willing to break it.
Finally, Agent Samuel Harris stepped forward, holding up his arms to signal a truce. He was absurdly young, and in any other circumstance, the first inquiry would be about his qualification to lead the investigation. But presently it was his badge that was facing scorn. So, the youthful, clean-shaven face with silky, long hair sighed deeply, attracting everyone's attention.
"We need to stop this," he said softly and waved his hands to pre-empt the Captain's immediate retort. "An hour and a half have passed since this city, and our country witnessed what can only be described as the deadliest mass shooting ever committed. And sadly, it's being followed up by the worst law enforcement response.... ever."
"You know what would speed things up?" Agent Murphy snapped, adjusting the black cap that sported three cream-colored letters. "Letting my men enter the crime scene. It's a bloody NRA convention, for God's sake! Can you imagine how many fucking guns there's gonna be on the floor?"
The imagery shook most of the men present, but Captain Wilson was immune. "My men can handle it."
"Bullshit! There's gonna be a hundred different kinds of firearms in that building. If this was a shootout, then my God, a million different bullet casings!" Agent Murphy cried, gesturing angrily. "Only we are capable of handling all of it. That's what we bloody do, for God’s sake! We're Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms!"
Before the Captain could respond, one of his men fired off a rebuke that was probably on everyone's mind. "How did that work out in Seattle, then?"
The ATF Agents almost lunged forward in fury, but the lead FBI Agent jumped into the middle of the room, slashing the air with his hand. "Enough! We can spend the rest of the day talking about the past. Or we can focus on the present. We have a suspect, not ten meters from here, for crying out loud!"
It didn’t have the unifying effect it was supposed to.
"He's not the guy," Agent Murphy muttered dismissively.
"He is!" Captain Wilson snarled, though his men sensed his conviction was wavering. "Just because we haven’t found the guns yet doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. He was seen fleeing the scene, and he came in to confess."
Agent Harris looked skeptical. "Captain, I really don’t think he did it." And before the Captain could reply, he pressed on. "But we'll find out. But first, we straighten out the chain of command."
He turned to the ATF Agents and snapped his fingers. "I believe you guys really are the best at handling the crime scene ballistics. No doubt about it. If you get the go-ahead, will you give up overall jurisdiction?"
There was a moment's silence; the men considered the proposal, the Captain looked stunned by the rapid negotiation being carried out in front of him. Before he could respond, Agent Murphy held out a hand and the two men shook.
"That just leaves you, Captain."
Like pieces in a chess match, the ATF and FBI agents turned towards the group of local police officers. They in turn looked towards their Captain, who seemed to be weighing his options. Sterner and Merson knew the man much before he took charge of the Precinct; behind the quick temper and loud shouting resided a clever, calculating policeman.
“My men have already secured the crime scene,” he said. It was the start of a negotiation, and Agent Harris knew it.
“That’s fine, they can stay,” he said slowly, measuring his words, not breaking eye contact with his giant opponent. “We’ll need all the manpower we can get if we’re to take witness statements, canvass the hotel and its surroundings. The FBI doesn’t have that. Not in the timeframe we’re looking at.”
Merson exchanged a quick smile with Sterner. It was a nice touch. Admitting the FBI needed the local police.
“Okay then,” Captain Wilson said gruffly, taking a step back. “I want Sterner and Merson to be on the case. They’re my best detectives, and you’ll need them.”
Agent Harris broke into a relieved smile. “Perfect, I’d love to have them on my team.” Taking a deep breath, he looked around the room and added, “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Connor opened the door and stepped in just then, as though to let out the pent-up tension in the briefing room. But the look on his face was anything but relaxed.
“We – we have a situation, Captain!” He announced, looking past Agent Harris.
After a second’s pause, Captain Wilson gestured quickly. “Agent Harris is running the investigation. Tell him what happened.”
Connor readjusted his gaze and took a moment to blurt it out.
