Darwin's Blade

13 “M is for Mist”

There were so many cops in Dar’s apartment that it looked like a donut shop during graveyard watch.

A ballistics team worked on re-creating the precise angle of the two bullets from where they shattered the high windows on the north side to their point of impact. Sheets and painter’s canvas had been hastily nailed up over the other windows. There were half a dozen uniformed officers in the room and more plainclothes people. Special Agent Jim Warren was there representing the FBI, with his assistant, a short, intense woman. Captain Hernandez from the San Diego Police Department was there with six or eight of his usual entourage, as was Captain Tom Sutton of the CHP. Syd Olson and Tom Santana were also there, sitting on the leather couch and staring at the rifle on the coffee table.

“I’ve never seen a rifle like that before,” said one of the CHP officers. The man was sipping coffee from one of Dar’s white mugs.

“It’s a civilian version of one of the sniper rifles your SWAT team would use,” said Syd.

“Have we run down the make?” asked Captain Hernandez.

“I recognize it,” said Tom Santana. “It debuted at an NRA show in Seattle a few years ago. It’s a Tikka 595 Sporter with a Weaver T32 scope.”

“How far away was the rooftop?” asked Captain Sutton.

“Almost seven hundred yards to the north of here,” said Syd. “I actually saw the first muzzle flash and was on my way before the second shot was fired.” She nodded toward two uniformed officers sipping soft drinks in the kitchen area. “I was staked out on the hill above the condo, so I radioed the unmarked car out front to check on Dr. Minor while I went in pursuit of the assailant.”

“But you didn’t know about the fire escape,” said Special Agent Warren.

“No,” said Syd. “I went up the main stairs and onto the roof as fast as I could. I saw the suspect on the second level of the fire escape and still descending. I fired two shots, but missed.”

“One of them was a warning shot, presumably,” said Captain Hernandez dryly.

“The shots made the assailant drop the heavy rifle into the dumpster below the fire escape,” said Tom Santana. “But then he reached his car and got away before Investigator Olson could get down the fire escape.”

“No make on the car, Syd?” asked Captain Hernandez.

“I couldn’t see any plate numbers. It was American-made. Compact. And it was long gone by the time I was down the fire escape.”

“You missed from three flights above the assassin,” said the CHP’s Captain Sutton, “but the marksman put two bullets right on the mark from seven hundred yards…in a light drizzle? Incredible.”

“Not so remarkable,” said Syd. “The shooter had been up there for some time, waiting for Dr. Minor to turn on a light. He’d even dragged up two sandbags to create an optimal shooting position. You notice that the cheekpiece on the hardwood stock of these military-style sniper rifles is adjustable…Our man had time to adjust the locking screws so that the cheekpiece was raised just the perfect height for his angle shot.”

“No fingerprints,” said one of the forensics people.

Syd and the others gave the man a tired look. “Of course not,” said Captain Hernandez. “We’re dealing with a professional here.”

One of the ballistics men came over to the rifle. “Remarkable shooting from six hundred and eighty yards. We’ve calculated that the first was a perfect heart shot. We dug the slug out of the rear wall of the closet. The shooter was using Winchester .748 forty-five-gram handloads—”

“We know that,” said Syd. “There were still three cartridges in the five-capacity chamber when we recovered the weapon. No brass at the shooting site.”

“Bolt action,” continued the forensics man, undeterred. “He pocketed the brass from the first two shots, but he still got off the second shot in less than two seconds. And it would have passed right through Dr. Minor’s skull on the floor if Dr. Minor had fallen where the shooter rightly expected him to be. Also—”

“Would you all please quit referring to Dr. Minor in the third person?” said Dar irritably. “I’m right here.” He was sitting in his Eames chair, wearing a green bathrobe that didn’t cover all the dressings the paramedics had put on his chest and neck for glass cuts.

“You wouldn’t be there,” said Syd, “if the shooter hadn’t sighted in on your mirror reflection rather than you.”

“Lucky me,” said Dar.

“Damned right, lucky you,” agreed Syd, sounding angry. “If it hadn’t been for that very light drizzle, the slight fog that came in from the ocean this evening, a slight mist, this scope would have told the shooter he was looking at your reflection in the mirror rather than a flesh-and-blood target. Even from almost half a mile away, this guy put a bullet right through your heart.”

“In the mirror,” said Dar. “Seven years bad luck.” He sipped hot tea and paused to look at his hand as he held the cup. It was shaking very slightly. Interesting. “And why were you staked out there anyway, Investigator Olson?”

Syd’s eyes narrowed. “Just because you weren’t going to help us catch these bastards didn’t mean that I was leaving you unprotected.”

“Not much protection involved, was there?” said Dar. “The fellow got two shots off…By the way, are you sure it was a man?”

“Ran like a man,” said Syd. “Dressed in a windbreaker and ball cap. Average height. Average to slim build. Never saw his face and it was too dark to tell his race or nationality.”

Captain Hernandez was straddling a kitchen chair pulled into the circle around the coffee table. He put his chin on his forearm and said, “Is it standard procedure, Investigator Olson, for law enforcement officers from the state’s attorney’s office to go after shooters single-handedly…not wait for backup?”

Syd smiled at him. “No, Captain, it certainly isn’t. But Tom was my backup and he and I were going to take turns on shifts for a few nights. I’m sure that my superiors in Sacramento will remind me of proper procedure.”

“Good,” said Hernandez. “So where does that leave the investigation?”

Jim Warren of the FBI crouched next to the coffee table. “Well, we don’t have prints, we don’t have a description of the shooter or tag numbers on his car, but we’ve got his weapon. The Weaver scope isn’t that unusual, but there can’t be many of these Tikka 595s sold. And even though an initial dusting didn’t turn up any prints on the three cartridges still in the magazine, perhaps the FBI lab will find something. They usually do. And we’ll backtrack on the hand-loaded Winchester .748 MatchKing 8THPs…It’s not your usual deer-hunting ammo.”

There was more talk. Dar finished his tea and found himself half dozing, feeling the pain from the cuts and an ache from the tetanus shot but mostly feeling sleepy. Lawrence and Trudy called about 2:00 A.M.—they were plugged into a serious network—and it was everything Dar could do to keep them both from coming over, too.

It was dawn by the time the last of the uniforms and CHP people left. There were two San Diego PD unmarked cars on sentry duty now, a CHP cruiser on regular patrol, and Dar could just barely make out the uniformed officer with a rifle on the roof of the shooter’s building—an old warehouse two blocks north. Dar didn’t think the assassin was coming back today.

Finally only Tom Santana and Syd Olson were left; both looked very tired.

“Dar,” said Syd, setting her hand on his knee.

Dar snapped awake. He suddenly was very aware of the pressure of Sydney Olson’s hand, the presence of the other man, and the fact that he had only had time to pull on his bathrobe by the time the mob arrived. “What?”

“Does this change anything?”

“Getting shot at always changes things,” said Dar. “If it keeps up, I may become religious.”

“Goddammit, stop playing games. Will you consider helping us directly now? It will be the only way we can insure your safety and put these arrogant bastards away.”

“All of them?” said Dar. “You think you can catch all of them? Tom, how many cappers and bulls and cows and clinic workers and attorneys were there in that Vietnamese operation you broke up some years ago?”

“About forty-eight people,” said Tom Santana.

“And how many did you get indictments on?”

“Seven.”

“And how many did you send away?”

“Five…but that includes both attorneys, the only legitimate doctor in the bunch, and the head capper.”

“And they were out in…what? Two years? Three?”

“Yeah,” said Tom, “but the attorneys aren’t practicing anywhere, the doctor moved to Mexico, and the capper is still on parole. They’re not staging accidents any longer.”

“No,” said Dar. “Now it’s the Alliance and the Organizatsiya. The game never changes…just the faces.”

Santana shrugged and walked to the door.

“Don’t forget to put the police bar in place,” Syd said, and turned to follow Tom Santana to the elevator.

Dar took her by the wrist. “Syd…thank you.”

“For what?” she said, looking deep into his eyes. “For what?” She left without waiting for an answer.

It was strangely dark in the condo, even after sunrise, because of the canvas over the tall windows. Dar made a mental note to have some blinds installed as soon as he could. He went back to the bedroom, shrugged off his bathrobe, and crawled under the comforter. He thought he would be asleep in seconds, but he lay there for some time, watching the filtered sunlight move across the high ceiling.

Eventually Dar slept. He did not dream.