John Lutz - Fear the Night

He let the binoculars fall on their leather neck strap and turned away from the range to look at Meg and Bellman. Meg felt Birdy shift his weight slightly beside her. Repetto’s eyes, blue and with the cold spark of diamonds, had the same unsettling effect on him that they’d had on her. Here was a man in the thrall of a mission larger than his life. If the Night Sniper wanted a worthy opponent, he’d sure found one.

Meg holstered her gun. She hoped Repetto hadn’t noticed her hand was trembling.

He said, “Two things. One is, despite the temporary rank, I’m on unofficial status, so call me Repetto.” He wasn’t quite ready to be on first-name-basis familiarity. “Two is we are going to nail this son of a bitch!”

Meg surprised herself by smiling slightly. Adrenaline, maybe. “I’ll remember both of them.”

“And I will,” Birdy said beside her in his gravelly voice. Meg saw that his index finger was nervously twitching where it was extended along the barrel of his Glock.

Repetto had apparently had enough shooting. He slipped his loaded revolver into its belt holster, then led the way back to where the car was parked. From the backseat floor he retrieved the scuffed, black leather briefcase he’d brought with him. He opened the briefcase and drew out two brown cardboard packets with their flaps tied with string wrapped around metal grommets. He laid them on the sun-warmed trunk lid of the car. “These are the murder files on all the Night Sniper victims, copies for both of you. When we leave here, take yours with you and study it.”

“Study it some more, you mean,” Meg said. “When Birdy and I knew we had this assignment, we went over all the material and talked about it.”

Repetto smiled at her through the grief and cold purpose that possessed him. “Good. Come to any conclusions?”

“He likes to play,” Birdy said, slipping back into his suit coat he’d carried slung over his arm. “They all do to some extent, but the game is a big part of this one’s sickness.”

“That’s more or less what Zoe Brady says,” Meg added.

Repetto was surprised. “The profiler’s already talked to you?”

“Not personally. It’s what she wrote in a summary of her findings. Also, he’s a sadist.”

“Aren’t they all?” Birdy said, drumming his fingertips on the trunk.

Meg momentarily rested her hand on his to quiet the drumming fingers. They’d been partners long enough that she could do that and neither of them thought much of it. “For the most part, they are. But if our killer was driven primarily by sadism, he’d want to get up close and see the effects on his victims, instead of shooting them with a long-range rifle from far enough away that he can’t see and feel their shock and fear.”

Repetto looked at her. “But I thought you got from Zoe Brady’s material that she thinks this guy’s engine is sadism.”

“She didn’t exactly say that,” Meg told him. “I surmised that’s what she thinks.”

He gave her a look that bored into her. Somebody on the range got off a long volley with something large-caliber, overwhelming the staccato reports of smaller firearms. “You put much stock in profiling?”

“Some, is all.” Meg shrugged. A cloud moved away and she squinted against the sun. “Science, applied to a nutcase with a rifle, I don’t know how accurate that can be.”

“I’ll take a good cop’s hunch any day,” Repetto said. He nodded toward Bellman. “What Birdy said makes sense, about the game playing, the challenge. It means a lot to our sniper.” He reached again into his briefcase and removed a folded sheet of white paper. “This’ll make Birdy’s view of the Sniper seem even more accurate.”

The paper was a copy of a typed note sent to Repetto, care of the NYPD. It said simply, Now the Game begins.

There was no letterhead and no signature.

“Plain, cheap white paper and envelope,” Repetto said, before they could ask. “Sold in office supply stores and even drugstores. Same typewriter used on the envelope as on the note, probably a forty-year-old Royal manual. Mailed at the post office at Third and Fifty-fourth Street.”

“Busy place,” Birdy said.

“Latent Prints couldn’t lift anything from the paper or envelope, and there’s no thumbprint on the stamp. Not even DNA on the back of the stamp.”

“Careful guy,” Meg said.

“One who plans.”

“Profilers call the planners organized serial killers,” Birdy said.

“Fuck profilers.” Repetto realized as soon as he’d spoken that he’d overreacted. “Well, not really. We need to factor in what they say.”

“What Zoe Brady says,” Meg told him.

“Right. Let’s concentrate on our killer, not Zoe Brady.”

Meg and Birdy glanced at each other.

“He doesn’t use a sound suppresser,” Meg said. “He’s obviously an expert shot and must know something about firearms, so why doesn’t he use a silencer?”

“Maybe he can’t afford one,” Birdy said.

“He’d steal one. I think he knows that here in New York sound bounces around the buildings, and it’s impossible to know exactly where a shot came from. In each of the murders the sound of the sniper’s rifle echoed off all the hard surfaces so witnesses not only had no idea of the shot’s origin, some of them weren’t even sure if only one shot was fired.”

“He’d still be safer with a silencer,” Birdy said.

“Maybe,” Meg said. “But the rest of us would feel safer, and he doesn’t want that. We wouldn’t jump every time a car backfires or somebody drops something that makes a sudden sound like a gunshot. Our sniper likes the echoing crack of his rifle. It adds to the fear factor. He wants everyone to be on edge, afraid of him.”

Repetto cocked his head as if listening to the rattle of gunfire from the range, then looked at Meg. “You’re probably right that he’s primarily interested in gamesmanship and evoking a general kind of fear, rather than in sadism.”

“Only probably,” Birdy pointed out. “And he might be interested in a general kind of sadism.”

Repetto nodded. “We know about the game playing because of his contacts with the police, his insistence on me as an opponent, and the typed note. The rest of it’s speculation, but it’s worth keeping in mind.” He focused again on Meg. “What you surmise about the reason he doesn’t use a silencer fits in. Our man not only enjoys the fear factor, but it’s a strategic plus. It’s exactly the kind of thing I was hoping might come out of rereading the murder files.”

Meg felt a flush of pleasure at his approval. Why should I feel this way? I hardly know this guy. He’s not my father.

The shooter with the high-powered weapon opened up again. Meg thought she could smell gunpowder, though she knew they were too far away from the range unless the breeze was just right.

Repetto closed his briefcase and buckled a strap. “Let’s get to work revisiting the crime scenes and talking to witnesses, see if something new clicks. We do the grunt work. The we is you two. I’ve still gotta study these files.”

“So you’re the official Captain Repetto sometimes,” Meg said with a grin, trying a joke.

“All the time, actually,” Repetto said, not smiling. “But usually we’ll pretend otherwise.”

Jesus! She felt her insides shrivel. Make it better? Tell him I was kidding? No. Shut up. Don’t make it worse. The man’s virtual son was murdered days ago and he’s in mourning. I shouldn’t have played it light.

Or maybe he was amused and joking back. Possible …

“The work’ll keep us busy while we wait,” Repetto said, opening a rear door of the unmarked and tossing the briefcase far enough inside that he’d have room to sit.