Kill Shot Page 3

“Don’t read anything into this. You two simply possess the most patience, and you’re less likely to lose your cool and cause an incident with the rookie agents.”

  “Not sure about that,” Kaci said. “But I’m not going to stand out in this heat and argue with you.”

  The group broke up, and Rick slid onto the SUV’s smooth leather driver’s seat. He moved the motorized seat back for much-needed legroom and adjusted the mirrors while Brynn and Cal settled in the back. By the time the AC was cranking out cold air, Max had jogged to the car and climbed into the front seat.

  “Dr. Dobbs is more than happy to meet us.” He clicked on his seat belt. “And the homicide lieutenant offered their command truck for the interview. They’ve set up a second perimeter where we can park, and they’ve also pulled all unnecessary personnel from the scene to minimize the number of people getting wind of the ordnance.”

  He paused for a moment, shifting in his seat to look at Rick. “The lieutenant I spoke with said he’ll approve overtime for the team currently in place, so they won’t have to bring in others. And FYI, we won’t be including any Atlanta agents other than the ERT members in the investigation. Even then, their work will be restricted to evidence recovery, and they won’t be read in on the theft.”

  “Who does know about it?” Rick asked as he pointed the car toward the exit.

  “The forensic tech who recovered the bullet. Her supervisor, plus the lieutenant I mentioned, and a division captain. I’ve been assured they’ll keep things under wraps.”

  “Still, that’s a big-enough group that we can’t count on the word not getting out,” Brynn said. “I don’t even want to think about the press getting involved.”

  “What about our local office?” Cal asked. “Has anyone there been read in?”

  “When the bullet was discovered, an Atlanta PD captain talked to the special agent in charge, which is actually how we got looped in,” Max said. “So he’s in the know, but he’s the only one.”

  “I was worried about the grapevine.” Rick glanced at Max. “So I questioned the rookie. He hasn’t heard a thing.”

  “Just the way we like it.” Max’s phone buzzed, and he dipped his head to look at it. “Good. Got the pictures of the scene before the deceased was moved. I’ll forward them to everyone’s phone.”

  The thought of viewing the photos put an end to the conversation. Rick concentrated on driving, and the others turned their attention to their phones.

  At the crime scene, he was surprised to see so many looky-loos at this time of day hanging close to the yellow tape marking the scene’s perimeter. They held cell phones at the ready. Smartphones made working an investigation easier, but they were often used at crime scenes by gawking people hoping to catch anything they could display on social media to spread rumors. Made the Knights’ job more difficult. No way Rick would give them or the reporters standing near their vans anything to go on.

  He maneuvered the vehicle around in the secured parking area to back into the space. His military training would have had him park this way regardless of the press, but there was also no point in letting the reporters get a look at the team’s equipment while they unloaded. The second SUV slid into place next to him, and the team started to unload necessary equipment.

  Shane reached for the tote holding supplies to draw a sketch of the scene. He paused to look at Rick, a pensive expression on his face. One he often wore as the profiler on the team. “I spent the drive trying to get in the killer’s head and figure out his endgame. We have limited facts right now, but I have to wonder if he plans to use all of the bullets, or if he plans to sell them.”

  “The time DARPA wasted trying to recover the bullets on their own gave him plenty of time to think about it,” Cal grumbled.

  The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency oversaw the self-steering bullet project, or “smart-bullet project” as some called it. A management office only, DARPA contracted with independent companies to actually develop the projects.

  Shane pursed his lips. “Here’s the thing that’s troubling me. If the thief is bent on using all of the ammo, seems like he would have struck sooner.”

  Kaci hung her camera around her neck. “You don’t actually think he’ll use all thirty-six bullets, do you?”

  “Maybe he plans to fire off a few, or just this one, and sell the rest,” Cal suggested.

  Rick carefully weighed his next statement so he didn’t come off sounding like a jerk. “This might seem callous, but I’d rather he’d use every one of them. That way unscrupulous people can’t buy the ammo to analyze the technology and make their own.”

  “But that would be thirty-six murders,” Kaci cried out. “How could anyone decide to kill that many people he knew?”

  “Who says he knew the victim?” Rick asked.

  Cal frowned. “You mean a random shooting?”

  “Sure, why not? Test out the bullets and technology on a homeless guy like Ace Griffin. Or maybe the shooting was a demo for a potential buyer, and they chose the first guy who came along.”

  “If that’s the case”—Max crossed his arms—“then the clock is ticking, and we need to get to work before the ordnance is sold to the highest bidder.”

  Chapter 3

  The aftermath of death awaited Rick just a few feet ahead at the crime scene. He’d read Dr. Dobb’s statement about Griffin’s murder, but he needed to get the lay of the land before heading to the command truck to question her.

  He took a deep breath and rounded the corner to the scene lit with large klieg lights. He let the feel of the night, the incident, soak into his pores. Griffin’s fear seemed to linger in the thick air, and Rick could easily imagine him running from the doctor who didn’t believe him. Wanting to find a safe refuge and slipping past the two-story brick building on the corner. The last thing he’d known was a bullet slamming into his chest. Maybe not even that much, as his death would have been instantaneous.

  Rick closed his eyes and thought to pray for those who knew and loved Griffin, but he’d stopped praying after losing his wife, Traci, and their unborn son over five years ago. What was the point of prayer when it went unanswered?

  “You ready to do the interview?” Shane asked from behind.

  Startled, Rick opened his eyes and spun to meet the gaze of his more laid-back teammate. As team negotiator and profiler, Shane possessed keen instincts when it came to victims and suspects, so Rick had asked him to participate in Dr. Dobbs’s questioning.

  “Let’s get to it.” Rick stepped out of the cordoned-off area, ignoring questions called out by curious reporters. They must have caught sight of the embroidered team logo on his shirt, as they started shouting questions about why the FBI was brought in for this murder investigation.

  Head down and mouth clamped closed, he eased past them. Shane followed suit and they quickly reached the other side of the street and the truck boasting the Atlanta PD logo came into view. He’d soon be face-to-face with Dr. Dobbs. Unease settled in his gut. Earlier life experiences had left him wary of shrinks and he wasn’t eager to question her.

  Not that he would let his bias impact the way he treated the doc. As a law enforcement officer, he’d been trained to let go of any prejudices and assumptions before conducting an interview. Otherwise attempts to build a rapport with the interviewee could fail and negatively impact the interview.

  But since this was a critical interview, maybe he should let Shane take charge of the questioning. Rick could sit back to observe—a skill he’d honed in sniper training. Snipers weren’t simply shooters. They observed, assessed, and analyzed so they could report up the chain of command any problems they were seeing through the scope. Perfect training to prepare him for an observer’s role in the doctor’s interview.

  He slowed so Shane could come alongside him. “I want you to take lead on questioning the doc.”

  Shane’s eyebrow quirked. “Something you need to tell me?”

  Rick shook his head.

  �
�Then why put me in charge?” So much for easygoing Shane.

  “I’d like to observe.”

  “You could do that while still taking charge.”

  There was no legit reply other than the truth, and Rick wouldn’t lie to a teammate, so he didn’t respond.

  Shane shook his head and sighed. “I can usually predict how everyone on the team will act, but not you. There’s always something just beneath the surface. Something more to your thoughts, but you only share the bare minimum.”

  He was right, but Rick didn’t think the comment required a response, so he moved on. “I’d also like you to interview Griffin’s mother. It’ll mean a quick trip to Macon, but your diplomacy skills make you the best guy to deal with a grieving mother.”

  Shane remained silent for a long time, then finally shook his head. “I’ll head out right after I finish sketching the scene.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  Shane nodded. “You give any thought to our victim being involved in this?”

  “Griffin?”

  “Yeah. We all know murder victims often engage in criminal activities with their murderer before they are killed. Ace might have been in on the smart-bullet theft because he blamed the marines for his PTSD and wanted to get back at them. And some PTSD sufferers are prone to getting involved in criminal activities, too.”

  “I suppose he could be involved.” Rick ran his hand over the stubble on his chin and wished he had a shaver for a quick cleanup before the interview. “But any conclusion would be pure speculation at this point.”

  “True that, but something we need to keep in mind as we move forward.”

  “Understood.” Rick stopped at steps leading to the truck’s open door and gestured for Shane to go first.

  On the stairway Rick saw Dr. Dobbs standing in the aisle, her back to them. She was tall and slender, with muted red hair falling just below her shoulders. Despite having been called here unexpectedly in the early hours before dawn, she was nicely dressed in a full print skirt of green and turquoise and high heels in a complementary color, drawing Rick’s attention to her tanned and shapely legs.

  “Dr. Dobbs,” Shane said.

  She spun, and Rick steeled himself for her impartial, cool, maybe even defensive gaze to land on him. But she didn’t even notice him.

  Shane extended his hand. “I’m Special Agent Shane Erwin.”

  “I was expecting an Agent Cannon.” Her voice was languid, with a Southern drawl.

  “I’m Agent Cannon.” Rick climbed into the small space holding workstations, communication devices, and equipment storage compartments.

  She looked at him then. A raw scrape covering her cheek, and large blue eyes, washed with anguish, brought his feet to a stop. She’d been hurt. He hadn’t heard that. And her response wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Not at all.

  Nor did she look anything like he’d imagined. He’d seen her in his mind’s eye with a clinical appearance, but the woman standing before him was curvy and soft looking. Glossy hair framed a wide face with a narrow chin that he could imagine she raised when tested. But now she bowed her head as if feeling defeated.

  “Why don’t we all sit down.” Shane gestured at a workstation with a chair on each side.

  Rick heard Shane, but he couldn’t take his focus off Dr. Dobbs. He was mesmerized by the way she walked. She carried herself with confidence, and yet there was something else in her movements that he couldn’t put his finger on. As she settled on one of the chairs, he caught a whiff of cinnamon that matched the warm vibe she was giving off. He had to admit he liked it, and his interest was piqued.

  Not a reaction he could have predicted. He didn’t like to be caught off guard. Ever. And here? With a suspect, for Pete’s sake? One who was professionally trained to hide her emotions if need be and could be putting on a show of grief for their benefit? He couldn’t buy into her actions and forget his duty here. He had to keep his focus and look for underlying signs that said she could be playing them.

  He signaled for Shane to sit near the doctor while he remained standing to better observe her nonverbal actions. Shane dropped onto the chair, gaining the doctor’s full attention.

  “Ace was my client,” she said, her tone as soft as her curves. “I hope I can help you find his killer.”

  Shane smiled at the doctor. “Why don’t you start by telling us what happened with Mr. Griffin.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Mr. Griffin. It sounds so odd to speak so formally about Ace when he was such an informal guy.”

  “Would you like us to call him Ace?”

  “Would you mind?”

  Shane shook his head. She didn’t look at Rick, so he didn’t respond, but he was all for using “Ace” when talking with her if it meant using a name that didn’t make her stumble, and, in turn, she was more candid with them.

  “Then Ace it is,” Shane said. “Go ahead and tell us what happened last night.”

  She closed her eyes tightly, then blinked several times, flicking away tears that had formed. “Yesterday morning, Ace called my office to cancel our regular weekly appointment. He told me someone was following him, and he couldn’t be seen coming to my office.”

  Shane took out his notepad and pen. “Did he say who?”

  She shook her head. “But he was so upset that I was worried he’d lost touch with reality. So I convinced him to meet me on his turf.”

  “The park is his turf?”

  “Sort of. He’s homeless, and he often stayed at the nearby Salvation Army shelter.”

  “So you met,” Shane clarified. “Then what happened?’

  “He was jittery and hyper. Like in the early days of counseling. He told me if the people tracking him found him, they would kill him. When I tried to get him to tell me who would kill him, he clammed up.” She paused and curled delicate fingers into fists. “He was exhibiting signs of hyperarousal, which is common for PTSD, and I’m ashamed to admit I thought he was regressing, and I didn’t believe him. So he took off.”

  “How long did you talk with Ace?” Shane asked.

  “Hmm, maybe forty-five minutes or so. I’m not sure if he arrived at ten or not. I didn’t look at a clock until after the detective took my statement and I got in my car to go home. The park was obviously still open when I went after Ace, and I know it closes at eleven, if that helps.”

  Shane jotted the information in his notepad. “And you followed Ace right away?”

  She opened her fingers and splayed them on her skirt to stare at them. “I had to think about our conversation first. You know, process before deciding what to do. I’d guess it was five minutes or so before I went after him. That’s when I found him. Saw his red sneakers and knew it was him. Then the…” She shuddered. “The man. The one leaning over him. He had a knife, and he chased me until I fell.” She lifted an elbow, displaying an angry-looking scrape as if she thought they needed proof of her story.

  Proof? Yeah, Rick needed proof. If she really did meet Griffin around ten and talked to him for forty-five minutes, then waited five minutes to go after him, her story didn’t jibe with the facts as Rick knew them right now. Preliminary reports said the bullet had been fired from a long distance, and the landscape was such that the shot had to have originated from a tall building. Officer Hazeldale had radioed for help at ten minutes after eleven. If the shooter was at the scene when she arrived, and she waited about five minutes to follow Ace and found him six blocks away, the killer would have had to fire the deadly shot, bolt down a number of flights of stairs, stow his weapon, and then travel a long distance to reach Griffin, all in the span of ten minutes or so. Not likely.

  Unless he had an accomplice. Something that might make sense, as he hadn’t likely stolen the weapon system by himself. Rick seriously needed to get the MilMed owner to call them back so he could get more details on the theft, but his assistant said he was out of town and they might not hear from him today. Still, accomplice or not, what was the point of the shooter coming down
to the body after a long-distance shot? There was no way he needed to check if the .50 caliber had killed Griffin. He couldn’t possibly have survived, and the shooter had to know that. Hopefully the doc could shed some light on it.

  “Ten minutes,” he said, keeping his suspicion from his tone so he didn’t raise a red flag and bring up her defenses. “Are you sure about the time?”

  She met his gaze for the first time since she’d taken a seat. Large, expressive eyes ran over him, inspecting him as if she’d just realized he remained in the room. Her eyes flared wider, and she scooted back on the chair as if something about him disturbed her.

  “The time,” he said pointedly.

  “Right.” She bit down on her lip, her gaze moving away to search the space.

  Avoidance? Perhaps looking away because she planned to lie. A common pattern for criminals and people hoping to deceive.

  She swung her focus back to him, her chin tilted at a sharp angle. “I’m not sure how much time passed. I mean, I was so worried about him I didn’t even think about the time. After I worked things out, I went after him. If I had gone earlier, maybe…”

  “Maybe you would have been shot, too,” Shane said, and Rick knew his teammate had bought into her story and was trying to make her feel better. “Tell us about this man. Did you get a good look at him?”

  She shook her head. “His back was to me at first. Even when he turned, I didn’t see his face.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Rick said. “You could see well enough to make out Ace’s shoes but not the other man’s face?”

  “Yes. He wore a hoodie and the light hit just right to leave his face shadowed. And with a knife glinting in the streetlight, I didn’t look at his face for long. I just reacted. Took off and kept running.”

  Rick could see that happening, but he’d be sure the team tested out her statement by reenacting the event.

  “What about the guy’s build?” Shane asked.

  “He was big. Muscular. Scary.” She peered at Rick. “Kind of like your size.”

  Rick noted her statement but took it at face value. Eyewitness testimony was often wrong. Especially when the witness’s life was in danger at the time, as hers had been.