Nothing Left (Jack Widow Book 16), page 6
I asked, “When was this?”
Voss looked at her watch. I noticed it. The watch looked familiar, more familiar than she did to me. And it was familiar because I had seen a lot of SEALs wear it. It was a Casio G-Shock DW-6600. It was a man’s watch. It looked big on her wrist. She wore the band notched up as tight as it would go. She wore it upside down on her left wrist. So when she checked the time, she had to flip her wrist palm-up to read the time. This version of the G-Shock was old. The watch first appeared in the SEALs team in 1994, before my time. I had seen older guys wear this version, way back when I started. Nowadays, guys wore the newer versions or other comparable watches.
Voss said, “Close to three hours ago now.”
“What drew you out here?”
“I got a call at the station. Some motorist said he heard gunshots out this way. He said that they were quick in succession. He thought they might’ve been from an assault rifle, which is illegal to fire within twenty miles of the city. So I called the desk guy back in, and sped out here. I saw the brake lights from the road and found you—a guy I’ve not seen in years.”
I asked, “Did you get the cops’ names?”
“Yes. After I lost them earlier tonight, I checked them out with their direct unit commander.”
“Unit?”
“Yeah, they’re a part of a special task unit.”
“That’s interesting. What kind of unit?”
“I don’t know. It could be drugs or smuggling or something. I went online. That’s how I got their unit commander’s name. His name is Crocket. I called him up. He’s working tonight. Know what he told me?”
I asked, “Crockett? Like Davey?”
Voss cracked a half smile, and said, “I didn’t ask, but I’m sure he gets that one a lot.”
I stayed quiet.
She said, “And Sonny too.”
I shrugged.
She asked, “You know? Sonny Crockett?”
I shrugged again, looked at her blankly.
“From Miami Vice?”
Nothing from me. No response.
She said, “Anyway he told me that one of them was on suspension and under investigation. He recently shot a suspect. Crocket told me it was all routine. It was a justified shooting, according to him. And the other one was nowhere near my town. He said the other one was out on patrol and was supposed to be way off in the northern part of the state somewhere.”
“That’s curious.”
“I know. Then he said he’d check on him for me. He kept me on the line, put me on speaker so that I could hear. He radioed the guy. I listened, and the guy answered, sure enough. Crocket asked him where he was. He replied he was up near Farmington. Which is far north from here.”
She paused a beat and stared at me.
I stared back. Her pale blue eyes peered into me like she could see my soul. At that moment, there was a glimpse of her in my memories, but it was just a glimpse. It faded away, like a single echo into the night. I couldn’t put my finger on how she knew me.
Voss said, “I listened. I didn’t dispute his claim, but he was definitely not where he said he was. I saw him here with his partner all day.”
“They’re both here now.”
Voss glanced back at the corpses. She said, “The one in the passenger seat is the guy that was supposed to be on suspension. I got their photos off their file jackets. I pulled that too. His name was Colin Aragon.”
“For real?”
“Yep.”
“Like from The Lord of the Rings?” I asked. I expected Voss to have no idea what I was talking about, other than recognizing the title of the movie. But I was wrong.
She said, “No. That’s Aragorn, not Aragon. It’s spelled different and pronounced different.”
“You know Tolkien?”
Voss paused a quick beat. A partial smile cracked over her lips, which might surprise the uninitiated, the public who’ve never served in law enforcement, but not me. I was initiated. A dark sense of humor and dark perspective was a vital tool in any good cop’s arsenal. Voss said, “Aragorn. Elfstone. Strider. Eagle of the Star.”
I smiled, and said, “One ring to rule them all.”
Voss’s half smile faded away. She said, “The driver’s name isn’t much better. It’s Bobby Broome.”
“Bobby Broome?”
“That’s his name.”
“So I looked them up, learned about them, and followed them every time they were here. And I still have no idea what they were doing.”
I said, “Sounds like these guys were dirty?”
“That’s what I think. Why else would they be out here? Makes no sense.”
She looked at me one more time and turned her head slowly toward the dead cops. She said, “I need to find out why they were here. I know you said this already, but the killer could still be in town. And the reason these two were here could be his motive.”
“Are you going to call in your guys now?”
“Soon. Not just yet. If these guys are crooked and out here doing something illegal, then maybe I got a bent cop in my department. I need to know.”
“Can you keep this quiet? I’m not a lawyer, but eventually this will be in front of a courtroom. The shooter’s defense might pick apart the time it took you to report this to the FBI.”
Voss said, “I can’t keep it quiet forever. But I’m the chief. It’s officially under investigation now. Nobody’s going to fire me for not informing the FBI or my own guys right off the bat. Only the mayor can fire me, anyway. Even he needs a lot of cause for it. And the DA won’t object as long as it’s in a timely manner. But timely can be stretched. I won’t sit on it for two days or anything. But until I know more, it’s okay.”
Voss paused, like a thought occurred to her. She said, “What if they were meeting an FBI agent here?”
“With that terrible shooting? I doubt it.”
“They got support agents who aren’t required to keep up with their shooting. Support agents aren’t in the field very much. Could be something like that?”
I said, “It could’ve been the local ice cream man. We got no idea who it is. You can’t do this alone. You need help.”
“I need to know who it is before I involve my guys,” Voss said. Then she paused a beat and looked at me. She said, “I’m not alone. I’ve got you. You can help me.”
I stayed quiet, like I was pondering it, but I already knew I would help.
She said, “You owe me. In a way.”
“I owe you? For what?”
“First, I could arrest you just for being here. No one around. Two dead cops. It could be you. And two, you owe me from before.”
“What before?”
“And three, you owe me for forgetting me. Remember me and you’ll think of the reason you owe me.”
I stayed quiet. I could’ve gotten out of getting involved in this if I had just kept going when she let me go two hours ago. But I was involved now. Voss seemed like a good cop, but she could be in over her head. It could be dangerous for her to go at it alone. I could help her for now. I could always walk away first chance I got. So I agreed. I said, “Okay.”
She said, “We need to find the shooter and do it before the sun comes up. This road is barely used anymore. Drivers tend not to take this route at night because it’s dimly lit. There’s no need for improved lights since most people don’t use it as a thoroughfare. It’s more like the scenic route. The daylight can be a different story. Drivers will cut through this way sometimes. If someone drives this way after sunup, there’ll be no hiding an unmarked police car with two dead cops in it. Someone’s bound to get curious.”
“Plus that guy,” I said, and pointed at the driver. “Bobby Broome only has a few hours left on his shift. His C.O. will wonder why he’s not calling in. I’d guess that after they don’t hear from him, they’ll radio him. They may have radio checks in place already. When he doesn’t answer, they’ll start finding other ways of locating him.”
“Right, like the GPS system. All of their cars have them.”
“We won’t be able to keep this investigation secret for long.”
Voss said, “Plus Crocket will realize that I called him at night for information on the two of them. And when he can’t locate them, he’ll start calling me here. I shouldn’t be lying to him. That’s why I say we’ve got till sunup.”
“We’d better get to it.”
“What now?”
I said, “Let’s take a closer look at the crime scene.”
6
As the New Mexico night surrounded us, a cold front blew in from the east, and nature’s musical notes rolled off of the low, running hills. Voss stood beside me. We scanned the crime scene together. From the road, our silhouettes must’ve looked like a normal woman being towered over by a giant monster. A horror movie creature standing with his victim, close together like they were friends.
Voss looked at everything with me. There was impatience in her eyes, which was natural, I supposed, since we had been staring at the crime scene for another thirty minutes without speaking. I had already put the pieces together, but I didn’t want to lay out what I saw too freely. She was the cop here. I didn’t want to overstep my bounds. And she saw right through me. She said, “We’ve looked over this already. So now what?”
I stayed quiet and circled the unmarked state police car, kept looking. I remained careful not to touch anything. I watched every step I made, careful not to disrupt any forensic evidence or footprints or tire tracks. All like before. Together, we looked carefully around the car one last time. I counted the bullet holes again. Double-checked my math. Then I pictured the bullet trajectory.
Impatient, Voss said, “Tell me what you see.”
“The shooter stood here,” I said, pointing to a spot in front of the driver’s side windshield. “He stood ten feet from the grille. He was right-handed. Judging by shoe size and depth of his footprint, I’d guess he was five-ten, maybe five-eleven.”
“You can tell that by looking a shoe print?”
“Sure. It’s easy. Any average deer hunter can tell the same. They go for big bucks. When tracking animals, that’s what they look for, not fawn or doe.”
Voss half rolled her eyes but said nothing. She already knew that.
I asked, “Is there a dashcam? Maybe it recorded something?”
“No. This vehicle isn’t equipped with it. These two weren’t doing traffic stops. It’s supposed to be more invisible on the street. We couldn’t access it, anyway. Not right now. It’d be back at their HQ. Crocket would have access to it. If there were one.”
“Okay,” I said. I imagined the sequence of events in my head. “Here’s how I picture it. The shooter met with Aragon and Broome out here in front of the car. Probably in the headlights. They stopped and talked in a trinity circle at a distance of about twenty feet. The headlights were off on the police car when I arrived, but on during the meeting. So either the killer shut them off, or the cops did when they got back into the car. The evidence suggests the shooter was an amateur, and that meant he wouldn’t have thought to turn off the lights. Most likely. I figured the lights were already off. The cops got back into their car and switched them off.”
“Why would they do that? They’d lose visibility of him.”
“Maybe they shut them off as another intimidation tactic.”
Voss asked, “Intimidation?”
“Yeah. Like they argued with the guy here,” I said, pointing at the circle of footprints in the dirt. “Then to tell the guy it was over, to tell him he missed the deadline and the deal was off, they returned to their cruiser and shut off the lights. It was like the final word.”
Voss looked at me sideways. She had her flashlight on and arched it up towards the sky, so I could see her facial expression.
I asked, “What?”
“Intimidation?”
“Sure, that could fit.”
“That’s the dumbest explanation I’ve ever heard. I met these guys. They weren’t rocket scientists, but they were state detectives. They weren’t that childish.”
“I admit it’s dumb. But it could be true. It’s no dumber than alpha wolves peeing at each other's feet to mark dominance.”
Voss snarked, “I don’t know. Maybe you shouldn’t think so hard.”
She twisted the flashlight beam back down. We were about fifteen feet apart. I put my hand out in the light beam and beckoned her closer. She saw it and closed the gap between us. I pointed at the ground. She traversed the light and studied the footprints again.
I said, “Look for a flashlight then.”
“I got one.”
“Look for their flashlight.”
She asked, “You think they used one?”
“The headlights are off. If they didn’t switch them off, then they must’ve used a flashlight. It’s gotta be here somewhere. Maybe it’s in their car?” I said, and turned to the car with the dead cops in it.
“It’s not,” she said. “I searched it already. I didn’t see a flashlight. Although, they should have one. Maybe the shooter took it?”
“Maybe. But we should look anyway. There could be prints on it.”
She said, “We'd have to send the flashlight out to a forensics lab.”
“Can you do that?”
“Sure. It’s in Roswell. They won’t be open until tomorrow,” Voss said. Then she stopped and turned, walked back to her own cruiser.
“Where’re you going?” I called out.
She muttered something I didn’t hear. She went back to her own car and popped the trunk. She dipped down inside it and came back out with something in her hand. She closed the trunk and walked back over to me. There was a small stack of evidence bags stuffed under her arm. They were ziplocked and marked Property of Angel Rock Police on the sides. She held out a pair of blue surgical gloves.
She said, “Put these on so we contaminate nothing.”
I took the gloves and pulled them over my hands. They were snug, but they fit. I said, “They’re pretty tight.”
She put hers on with ease. There was still plenty of room in hers. She could’ve squeezed in another hand equal to her own size in each glove. She said, “They’re extra-large.”
I shrugged and struggled to get the gloves on both hands. The left one tore from my knuckles down to the band. But they held as they were meant to.
Voss pointed her flashlight beam back to the ground, and we searched for a dropped flashlight. We searched for fifteen minutes. We combed over the terrain—the hills, the grass, the dirt. We searched a nearby ditch. We searched all around where it was clear the killer’s vehicle had been parked. Voss scoured her flashlight beam over the low hills and into the dips and through the scattered bushes and rocks, but she found nothing.
I said, “Okay. I know you searched the police car once, but let’s look again.”
She stopped her search for the flashlight and joined me by the dead cops’ police car. She stayed there and watched as I walked away carefully and followed the foot tracks again. I stopped at the meeting place and looked back at the car, then I traced the footprints again with my eyes, slowly. I came to the same conclusions all over again. The same scene was reenacted in my head. The two cops met with someone. The motive was probably money, blackmail, or some variation of the two. They told him something that he didn’t want to hear. The two cops returned to their car, probably laughing at him, mocking him. The shooter stood here for a moment, and then, he went back to his car. He grabbed a gun off the front seat, came back at them, and shot them both dead, reloaded and emptied the second magazine into them. He walked the whole way. Probably held the weapon out in front of him at arm’s length like a hot potato he couldn’t get rid of.
Voss said, “See anything?”
“Nope. Same as before. Maybe the motive is money.”
“Could be. It always is.”
“It’s gotta be something of value. The shooter met with them here and they told him something that angered him, something that made him snap. He went back to his car, slow. He ducked inside and grabbed his gun, the extra magazine, which was probably on the seat. He must’ve known that they wouldn’t have checked him for weapons. And he was confident they wouldn’t check his car. He got his gun, came at them, stopped there, fired until he was out of bullets, reloaded, and did it again.”
I pointed to the ground where his tracks had stopped and back at the two dead cops. I held out my right hand, cupped it with my left, and made a gun gesture. My index finger pointed straight out, and I mimicked squeezing an invisible trigger. I pretended to fire thirteen rounds at the two dead cops. I looked down my index finger from my thumb like it was the stock sights on a Glock and aimed and fired. Each time I jerked back in a quick and soft recoil like the Glock has. I could picture each bullet firing through the bullet holes in the car, windshield, and through the dead cops. But I was an experienced shooter. This guy wasn’t. He probably fired with his eyes closed. Bullets sprayed everywhere. That’s why he hit all over the car. He was lucky to even kill both cops. It’s a case of numbers. He fired thirteen shots and multiple of them hit their targets. But most of them didn’t. They were wild shots.
Voss watched and stayed silent for a moment. She said, “This could’ve been some kind of payoff, maybe. Where money exchanged hands or was supposed to. Maybe he didn’t bring it? And an argument broke out.”
“Or maybe they didn’t bring it and that’s what set him off. And he shot them.”
Voss asked, “We know they gave him some sort of bad news. But what? Did they tell him they didn’t have his money? Or he told them he didn’t have their money? Also, why not just shoot him? Were they giving him a second chance?”
“Maybe they just wanted to toy with him,” I said. We moved back to the dead cops’ car. I examined it once more, double-checking the mental list of everything inside the car that I had already accounted for. There were two dead cops, two department-issued Glocks, holstered and unfired. There was one Remington Model 870 neatly perched. The stock end rested in a cradle. The barrel and the muzzle pointed upward at the cab’s ceiling. It was locked in place and untouched. In the backseat, there was nothing but bullet holes in the upholstery, and a spray of cloth and stuffing from the seats strewn about. They had been blown out at the time of impact and had long since settled on to the seat.
