Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

“This is going to work better than I could have ever imagined,” he whispered, looking for a place to park the van.

He looped the neighborhood, knowing exactly what he was looking for, and found it a block away from the diner, in a poorly lit location, with a dozen cars parked on the street. He left the van, being sure to lock it, pulled a dark hoodie over his head and placed the pistol in the right front pocket of the jacket, a string of firecrackers, and a lighter went into the left. A baseball cap was tucked under the hoodie, the brim protruding, shadowing his face. Sunglasses hid his shifting eyes and he walked, looking down at the ground, with both hands holding the concealed items. The walk to the diner took only a minute and he tried to estimate how long it would take to get back to the van after the hammer dropped.

He walked past the outside of the diner, looking in, to gauge the crowd and the location of the couple. A dozen tables were scattered about, with half surrounded by youth, young families and his obsession. The parking lot offered a fairly good vantage point to see into the brightly lit eatery, as he stood behind a cement barrier, which surrounded the fire hydrant on three sides. From his newly found perch he could see the events of the next 5 minutes unfold before him. He ran it through his mind, the entry, the firecrackers, the panic, and finally the shot.

Jasper carried two banana splits across the space from the counter, to the table, where his lovely date was anxiously awaiting her treat. She gave him two thumbs up as he approached and he laughed a deep, growling laugh that made heads turn to see where it was coming from. They sat at a small, round table with metal chairs, padded with red leather seats. A jukebox thumped out a rap tune that Blanche was not familiar with, but the kids in the diner were singing along, and shaking their behinds as they downed their ice cream sundaes. No one paid much attention to the stranger, hiding his face with a hoodie and sunglasses, that walked in the front door, moved through the small crowd, away from the counter, to the bathroom on the opposite side of the diner from the couple with the splits.

A moment later, the same cloaked character stepped from the bathroom, sliding a round, metallic garbage can out of the door with his foot, leaving it sitting in the short hallway against the wall. A wad of paper towel lay across the top of the can making it difficult to see into its contents. He moved quickly across the diner floor, between a couple of tables, and out the front door without making eye contact with anyone. As far as he could tell, no one had really noticed or cared that he had gone in, used the bathroom, and left.

Crouched behind the concrete in the parking lot he waited for the fireworks to begin. He didn’t have to wait long. When the first ‘Black Cat’ exploded, he had the attention of everyone in the diner and then the panic set in as 49 more went off in rapid succession. Bang, bang, bang! The sound echoing in the can, shooting shredded paper into the air. Parents scrambled to protect their children, people dove under chairs, and the huge Jasper pulled Blanche by the hand, half dragging — half carrying her from the diner. Lester knelt along the side of the concrete, hidden from the lighting that flooded the other half of the lot. He brought the.38 Special up in his right hand, supporting his arm with the left, pressing his left elbow into his bent left leg, his right knee ground into the pavement.

Jasper pushed the door open with his back, his hands wrapped around Blanche in an effort to shield her with his massive arms. Once free of the door, he pushed Blanche ahead in the direction of the Datsun, and then looked back into the diner to see if there was anyone else he could assist.

In that instant, the gunman had a stationary target, his back turned to him, the light of the diner illuminating Jasper. “Thank you God. Here you go, hero.”

He pulled the trigger only once, one final bang to complete the evening. The smoke from the barrel wafted into the air, recoil from the revolver brought the gun back a few inches before he rammed it back into his right front pocket. He didn’t need to stick around to see the aftermath; he knew the bullet had reached its target. The large man staggered, and then dropped, a split second after the slug left the barrel. Lester imagined him writhing about, swimming in his own blood, as he walked quickly, but with control back to the waiting van.

A smile crossed his lips, which led to a laugh, the sound of Blanche’s screams filling the stagnant night air.

In his office, 'The Wolf' sat behind the expansive oak desk, cowboy boots crossed at the ankles under the seat, his chin rested snugly in his hands, elbows firmly against the desktop for support. A stack of files before him, the top one opened to his scrutinizing view. Four break-ins within the span of a couple of weeks, each with a degree of escalation that was without question, the work of one man. His office had been working around the clock, deputies forgoing their days off, conducting interviews, even going door to door in the rural areas trying to drum up any possible leads. Forensics, led by Ricky Dean, were doing their best with the crime scenes and firing information as they assimilated it back to the Sheriff.

The latest incident troubled Lupo. His witness, although pepper sprayed, was sure she had seen a gun in the assailant’s hand.

“You don’t take a gun to a break-in unless you’re willing to use it”, he thought, reading through the final report one more time.

Arlene stuck her head in the door of his office, “Sheriff, did you even go home last night? You’re going to kill yourself if you don’t start eating and getting some sleep. This office can’t run the way it needs to it you’re in the hospital.”

“You’re sounding more like my wife than my secretary. I caught a few hours on the couch, I’ll be okay,” the stubborn man responded.

“Well, you look a mess, if you ask me, you should at least grab a shower and a clean shirt. Did you see anything on that shooting over at The Dixie Diner? Not our jurisdiction but thought you might want to hear about it.”

“Yeah, I caught that over the scanner, some big black guy shot, no apparent motive and no suspects. I’ve got enough to worry about, I’ll let the police department take care of that one,” the Sheriff grumbled, returning his concentration to the papers before him.

“Any possibility it’s connected to our case?” Arlene asked.

“Not likely. Wrong part of town, probably a drug deal gone wrong or a payback shooting,” he responded, again trying to get his focus back to his own case and dismissing his secretary without saying a word. She turned to walk away, but he called after her, “Hey Arlene, do me a favor and send Deputy Guest in here when she shows up will ya?”

“Sure Sheriff, no problem.”

Officer Guest arrived twenty minutes later, with Otis in tow, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and his tail curled up over his rear end, swinging happily side-to-side. The big shepherd tugged at the leash when he saw the Sheriff.

“Come here you knucklehead. Come here Otis,” Sheriff Lupo called, taking the big dog between his hands and rubbing his neck and ears. Otis responded by extending his long tongue in an attempt to lick the Sheriff’s face. “You being a good boy, huh, you gonna catch the bad guy?”

“You wanted to see me?” Guest inquired.

“Yeah, a friend of mine that teaches over at the University wanted me to speak to one of her classes, but with this investigation ongoing, I just can’t free up any time. I’d like you to take my spot and address the class on my behalf.”

“Me. Why me? I’m no speaker. What would I say? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Why don’t you send Breland, he likes to talk.”